


Shaking The Doll

by kcstories



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Angst, Background Drarry, Canon Divergence, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Morally Ambiguous Character, ambiguous ending, violence (not graphic)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-04-23
Updated: 2007-04-23
Packaged: 2017-10-06 18:35:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 30
Words: 23,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kcstories/pseuds/kcstories
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Hermione Granger confronts Tom Riddle in the Chamber of Secrets, he sees an opportunity too good to miss. (Tom/Hermione)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter or anything you recognise from the books (or films). It all belongs to JK Rowling, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Inc., Warner Bros., and any other entities involved.  
> **Warnings:** Manipulation, violence (non-graphic), sexual situations. Implied slash (Harry/Draco).  
> **Notes:** This tale can be considered AU. It only bears a passing resemblance to canon.

“You’re not Harry Potter,” the boy says flatly. He’s probably sixteen – seventeen maybe, and quite dashing and handsome, more so than any other student Hermione has seen here at Hogwarts. Not that looks matter per se. She’s merely… _surprised_; that’s all.

“No, I’m not. _Obviously,_” she shoots back, appearing a lot more confident on the outside than she actually feels. “My name is Hermione Granger.”

“I see,” he says and asks with a sneer, “So where _is_ the illustrious Mister Potter?”

“He couldn’t make it,” she replies simply, crossing her arms. And strictly speaking, that’s no lie. Harry wouldn’t have been able to handle this. He always sees the good in people, even when there is none to be found, such as is the case now, and so that’s why she Stupefied him earlier, just as he was on his way down here, to save him from himself.

Tom Riddle - whoever he may be, won’t fool _her_ quite as easily. Of that, she is pretty certain.

“So Potter sent his… girlfriend instead?” comes the mocking question.

“I’m _not_ his girlfriend,” Hermione says indignantly. “I’m just a friend.”

“Are you, now?” Tom laughs. The sound is hollow and full of malice. “Quite a hero, our Potter, isn’t he? Sending a slip of a girl to do his dirty work. Pray tell, are you supposed to save his little ginger-haired princess too?”

Frowning, Hermione glances down at Ginny, who’s lying unconscious on the floor, clearly under the influence of some stunning spell. _Well_, she thinks, _two can play that game, Mister Riddle._

She gives him a venomous glare and she takes him by surprise, be it only for a moment. He manages to dodge her hex at the very last minute. “Nice try,” he says. “I’m almost impressed.”

And then he hits back with a spell of his own. “Goodnight, Granger,” he whispers and it’s the last thing she’s aware of just before her entire world goes black.

He picks up the diary, and when he leaves the Chamber, he takes Hermione with him too.

She’s a little too young to be of any use to him at present, not to mention a little too honest and righteous, but children grow up so quickly and so long as they’re impressionable, their habits and opinions are easily corrected.

He can’t deny that she has guts and potential, and that she would be an asset to his cause.

Overall, she’ll be much more worth his while than that Weasley girl could ever be; little Ginevra, who is far too insecure, angry and predictable, and whose only merit is her connection to Potter.

He’ll let the supposed hero save that one; let the boy enjoy his fleeting fame and bask in the misguided faith people have in him and his powers - while he still can.

Meanwhile, Tom will focus his attention on Granger instead. She has an amazing magical aura around her, particularly for someone who’s clearly a Muggleborn.

But first she has to see the light…

So for the next five years she will sleep, and he’ll make her dream, and when she wakes up, older and wiser and completely enlightened, she will be his.

In every sense of the word.


	2. Chapter 2

Hermione opens her eyes to a new dawn and the first thing she realizes is that things seem very different.

She doesn’t feel quite herself, and everything else appears frighteningly foreign too.

She looks around. The room is light and spacious, with bright sunlight streaming through the open windows. She can hear the sound of excited seagulls outside and she takes that to mean that her present location is somewhere close to the coast.

But which coast, she wonders, and how on earth did she even get there?

She can’t remember a single thing.

She does notice that she’s wearing a white dress. It looks a little bit like a nightgown, but she’s sure it must be a dress because nightgowns, as far as she knows, don’t have this much lace or nearly as many ribbons.

She glances down at her hands and gasps. She no longer has the hands of a twelve-year-old girl - of a _child_.

She must have been asleep for years.

The door opens and someone walks in.

_"Tom Marvolo Riddle."_

Him, she does remember.

Or so she gathers, because the details remain a little vague, like faraway scenes not-quite-seen though a mist, and she’s not even all that certain that what she does remember actually happened, but she supposes it must have done, or how else would she know?

_”It’s hard to get one’s head around, isn’t it, Bella, that the famous Harry Potter would send a silly little girl to do a man’s job?”_

Suddenly Hermione recalls something else - _someone_ else, and the memory is like a hard slap in the face.

_Ginny. Lying on the floor. Unmoving. Unconscious. Cursed. Then that other spell. A harshly uttered hex, soon followed by total darkness._

“Good morning, Miss Granger,” Tom Riddle says with a smile that's just a hint too sweet for comfort. “Such a pleasure it is to be able to welcome you back amongst the living.”

“Where am I?” she asks him loudly, barely able to keep the rising anger and fear -- mostly anger, she assures herself -- out of her voice.

Then it hits her that her own voice sounds almost foreign too, like she woke up in someone else’s body, though she didn’t. She’s merely older. Isn’t she?

“It’s 1997,” he answers the question she doesn’t need to ask. “So you’ve missed quite a bit. But on the other hand, nothing you couldn't just as easily do without.”

“But how? What?” Hermione stammers, and immediately feels like kicking herself because she knows she used to be a lot more eloquent once, even if that seems like a long, long time ago now.

He hands her a newspaper. Apparently, he expected something like this.

The article on the front page mentions the mysterious disappearance of a Muggleborn Hogwarts student by the name of Hermione Granger. It also says that the sole witness, eleven-year-old Ginevra Weasley, was unable to remember a single thing of what had occurred or why she, herself, had been found in a room that had been sealed off for decades or how the girls had even managed to make their way down there.

Hermione frowns. And then, in an instant, the details come flooding back - vividly, with a vengeance.

“You kidnapped me,” she puts to him.

Tom sneers. “That is simply a matter of perspective, my dear. One could just as easily say that I saved you.”

“Saved me?” Hermione snaps. “From what?”

“Making the wrong choice. Wasting a perfect opportunity. Letting a glorious future pass you by. Squandering your obvious potential.”

“How do you mean?”

“I can teach you a lot more than Hogwarts ever could, Hermione. And when you think about it, when you delve deeply into your subconscious, you might discover that I already have.”

“What?” she asks again and all she can think is that this boy- no, this _man_ is dangerous, that he must be; and in what way and just how badly did he muddle up her mind if what he claims really _is_ true?

A house-elf scurries in with a tray.

Breakfast looks very appealing. Pancakes. Her favourite treat to start the day with.

Again, she frowns. How did he know?

She doesn’t need to ask him that, either.

“I know everything about you, Hermione,” he says simply, and not believing him just doesn't make sense.

A shiver runs up and down her spine.

She almost remembers something else, but then she doesn’t.

Instead, another set of images forces its way to the surface.

_They're sitting on a blanket somewhere in a forest or a clearing. All around them, birds are chirping, and his arms are around her and his mouth descends upon hers, and the moment is beautiful and romantic, and her heart skips a beat. No one has ever made her feel quite that special before._

But none of that actually happened, did it?

She was asleep. She’s sure she must have imagined that part, dreamed it.

She hopes she did.

She still hasn't a clue who he is, but she does have a very strong suspicion that he's probably the last person in the world she should be entertaining such thoughts about.

“Enjoy your breakfast,” he says as he makes his way back to the door. “I’ll be downstairs in the sitting room if you need me. Incidentally, I’ve brought along a nice selection of books you might be interested in.”

Her eyes widen. Something tells her that this entire set-up is all for her benefit alone, and she can't help but wonder why. What does he want from her?

Carefully, she takes a tentative bite of the first pancake.

It tastes perfect, she thinks. A little too perfect, she decides when she gives the matter some more thought.

Just like the dresses she spots hanging on a rack at the other side of the room. They’re more like gowns. They remind her of the forties or fifties. They're definitely from a different era, if not a different world.

Then, suddenly, another memory washes over her.

_In the nearby distance, moonlight reflects in the ocean, while she’s sitting on some beach, with him, and he’s kissing her again, moving closer, and slowly unbuttoning her dress._

And that _definitely_ didn’t happen.

She shakes her head and shudders, not sure whether it's fear or anticipation that has her trembling like this.


	3. Chapter 3

Dressed in the most casual looking of the dresses she found in her room, though it’s still much too formal and entirely too posh to her liking, Hermione gingerly makes her way down the spiral staircase.

She didn’t expect to discover that she’s being held in a lighthouse - of all places, but she isn’t terribly surprised either. At least this explains the constant cries of seagulls.

She finds him in the sitting room, precisely where he said he would be.

The first thought that comes to mind when she lays eyes on him is that he’s wearing reading glasses and oddly enough, they make him look even more handsome and attractive than usual, and that thought has barely invaded her mind before Hermione feels a strong urge to clamp a hand over her mouth, or kick herself or well, do something, _anything_ to shake herself back to reason.

Since when does she consider her captor - who’s clearly not a nice person, whoever he is; since when does she consider him _handsome_?

“Absolutely ages,” her treacherous mind tells her, and she has no idea where that thought comes from either, but she wishes with all her heart that she could make it go away- along with so many other things.

Nothing about this feels real. Nothing makes sense. And she so desperately longs for something – just one single aspect of her current predicament – to make sense or give her even the slightest feeling of security.

Tom Riddle looks her up and down approvingly. She struggles not to blush under his blatant scrutiny; a reaction she instantly regrets because she’s not some silly girl with some ridiculous crush and honestly, it’s very rude of him to stare at her like that. Didn’t his mother teach him any manners?

“Care to join me?” he offers.

Before Hermione has the chance to reply, she suddenly, inexplicably, feels herself drawn to the windows. She steps closer to them, until she sees the clear blue sky and the sandy beach and the beautiful, calm ocean.

“Am I allowed to go outside?” she asks, because asking seems to make more sense than trying to run would; assuming she's even capable of running. She has her doubts about that. She doesn’t quite trust the strength of her legs yet.

He smiles. “Naturally, Hermione. You’re hardly my prisoner here.”

She frowns, thinking she would have to be a complete fool to believe that. If not his prisoner, then what is she? What else could she possibly be?

Still, she has a strong feeling that angering this man wouldn’t be a very smart idea, so she decides not to argue.

Instead, she nods, excuses herself, and heads outside, through the front door, which isn’t even locked, and immediately she understands why he doesn’t mind her going out.

They’re in the middle of nowhere.

There are no other houses, roads or people – there isn’t anything to be seen for miles around, except the sand, the sea, the screeching seagulls, and the sky that seems to take on a more threatening hue the longer she stands there, motionless, staring at it.

And then, suddenly, out of nowhere, she recalls something else, something a lot more worrying still…

She actually recognizes this beach, and she remembers that warm summer night…

Or was it just a dream?

* * *

_”I’d never hurt you, Hermione.” The look on his face is reassuring, yet it fills her with dread._

“But- Well, I’ve never done anything like this-” And she hasn’t, as far as she knows, from the little she remembers about what happened before it was her and him and here. It seems that these days, her whole life revolves around him, and she wonders if that was ever different. She assumes it must have been, once, a very long time ago. And suddenly she's thinking about chocolate frogs and a big ginger cat and she doesn't know why.

“Oh, but you _have_. Don’t you remember?”

“No.” She doesn’t. Life is like a never-ending today, and tomorrow, it will all start from the very beginning, with no recollection of yesterdays or their meaning, except these flashes of green, and Harry - who was Harry again?

Tom grins. “Then I will just have to refresh your memory, won’t I?”  


* * *

Suddenly, she feels faint. She’s vaguely aware of seagulls crying – always being so terribly loud in the nearby distance, but their noises fast fade into nothingness as her entire world slips away.

He catches her right on time, just before she hits the sand.

“Clearly it was a little too much for you to take in, all in one day,” he whispers against her cheek, but she doesn’t hear him.

She _can’t_.

All she’s aware of is a warmth that feels oddly familiar, and she wants it to surround her and consume her and blow her away.


	4. Chapter 4

All billowing robes and unwavering determination, Bellatrix Lestrange swiftly walks into the room. “You summoned me, My Lord?” she asks, curtsying respectfully.

“Indeed, I did, Bella.” He removes his glasses and gestures her to sit down. “Tell me, how are things going on the Derbyshire front?”

She takes a seat, and in a clear, business-like fashion starts to explain the latest developments, both good and bad (with a strong emphasis on the good, of course) in this war which is currently raging not so quietly in the faraway distance, while he remains here, behind the scenes, engineering everything and at the same time, keeping himself amused with his little side project –

_Reconstructing Hermione Granger._

There’s not a single doubt in Bellatrix’ mind that one day, she could have been his chosen favourite, his second in command, herself, that all his attention and praise would have been hers eventually, if only that overrated Mudblood hadn't woken up quite so soon.

But perhaps she shouldn’t be thinking about his _guest_ \- she has long stopped referring to the girl as a captive or hostage, even in her own head, because it displeases him greatly whenever she does and she wants nothing but his full approval.

The look on his face suddenly tells her he can sense what she’s thinking, and he doesn’t even have to resort to Legilimency for that. He knows her inside, and aside from her husband, he’s the only one who does.

“I realize that you’re worried about me, Bella,” he says with a kindness that would surprise anyone else, “and your concern at a time when true loyalty should never be taken for granted is most appreciated. However, you would be wise to trust me equally in return. Hermione Granger, despite her complete lack of a decent wizarding heritage, is destined for greater things, and with the right kind of guidance, she’ll be a wonderful asset to our Cause. I’ve waited for this moment for years, prepared her carefully. It’s just a matter of time until she’s finally fully ready to join us.”

“Yes, My Lord, of course,” Bellatrix replies quickly, “but have you ever considered-“ She’s almost afraid to utter the rest of the words, but she feels she must. "What if you fail, My Lord?"

"Don't be ridiculous," he snaps and slams the thick book in front of him shut with a loud thud. "Do you honestly believe I haven't thought this through, looked at it from all possible angles? Are you naïve enough to assume that I have neglected to examine each and every possibility numerous times? I'm well aware that Hermione might turn out to be a liability, but she won't, you see, because I know her weakness."

“Her weakness, My Lord? What-“

"Me,” he says with a sneer. “Now, unless I’m mistaken about our schedule, I believe you are expected at a meeting in Hereford at five p.m. sharp.”

“Yes, indeed,” she answers immediately. “I’ll Owl you the report later, Sir.”

“Thank you.”

With a quick flick of her wand, she Apparates away, not a single doubt in her mind that some day very soon, he will live to regret this.

At least she’ll be there to repair any damage Hermione Granger manages to inflict, unless she finds some way to stop the unworthy Mudblood first, before the girl gets the chance to do anything.


	5. Chapter 5

Hermione opens her eyes to discover that there is a big ginger cat on her bed, playing with a bright red ribbon. Something about the animal’s round, fluffy face looks vaguely familiar, but whatever the sight beckons her to remember refuses to reveal itself.

"He has missed you, you know,” Tom says, startling her. She didn’t notice him before now, sitting in the armchair next to her bed, watching her intently. "We've been taking very good care of him, as you can see, but he quite clearly prefers your company."

Hermione frowns. “That’s _my_ cat?”

"Yes. Don’t you remember Crookshanks?"

“Well I-“

She swallows hard as another memory bursts to the surface.

* * *

_”I dunno why you had to get that enormous hairball of a cat, Hermione. Owls and rats are so much cooler. I mean, just look at it, nothing but hair and claws. It’s going to shed all over the Common Room, and scratch people, and chase after Trevor, and-”_

"Oh, do shut up, Ronald. And stop calling him an _it_." Hermione fixes the boy with a stern glare. His face is covered in freckles and his hair is almost the same colour as her cat's fur. She doesn’t think she likes him very much.

* * *

"Tom,” Hermione asks carefully. "Who is Ronald?”

"Well, he isn’t anyone _I_'ve ever heard of, so he can't be terribly important, can he?” Tom smirks. “ Are you sure he even exists?”

"No. I- I suppose not.”

She suddenly feels a little faint again. Is that redheaded boy merely a figment of her imagination? And what about his sister?

He has a little sister, doesn’t he?

* * *

_“Don’t worry, Ginny. I’m coming for you. I won’t let him hurt you. Just hang in there. Stay strong. Don’t believe him. It’s Not-Safe-Not-Safe-Not-Safe.”_

Why is Tom there? Why is he wearing a Slytherin uniform? She hasn’t seen him at Hogwarts before, has she?

No. Someone like him, she definitely would have noticed much sooner.

Then it’s all a blur of green and water and- snakes.

A basilisk?

* * *

"I’ll leave you to get changed and become reacquainted with your old friend,” Tom says, shattering her reverie. “If you’re hungry, dinner will be served outside in twenty minutes. The weather’s lovely today. We’d do well to enjoy it while it lasts.”

He gets up and walks out of the room.

Hermione lets out a deep breath, very relieved that he’s gone, at least for now.

She doesn’t know how much longer she’ll be able to take this; the constant assault of images and fragments of memories or dreams, or is it simply her overactive imagination that makes her wonder if she’s finally losing her mind?

* * *

_“Diaries don’t write back, Ginny. They never have and they never will. It has to be some kind of trick; some kind of trap, even. Dark magic.”_

“NO! You’re just jealous, Hermione, because this is mine… HE IS MINE! Out of all the girls at Hogwarts, he chose ME!’

“I’m not jealous, Ginny. I’m just terribly frightened for you.”

“NO!”

“Ginny, wait up, come back… Ginny!”

* * *

Hermione blinks. There is a dull throbbing sensation behind her eyes. Another one of those dreadful headaches. They always come when she has slept too little, or too much.

She must be going out of her mind.

She thought she remembered so much yesterday – that was yesterday, wasn't it?

And now it’s gone.

All gone.

“Crookshanks?” she whispers hesitantly. The cat looks up and starts to purr contentedly, as if in response.

Hermione exhales. A sense of peace comes over her.

She watches how Crookshanks yawns and curls himself up against a pillow, and once the cat is sleeping soundly, Hermione rises, changes into another one of the dresses provided, and heads for the door.

Suddenly, somewhere halfway down the stairs, somehow, things no longer seem quite as daunting.

The unexpected change in perception makes no sense at all, but should she even expect it to?

Tom is waiting for her at the bottom of the staircase. She wonders how he knows, but he seems to know so much about everything that perhaps she shouldn’t waste her time and energy wondering.

"Are you feeling any better, Hermione?"

Taken aback at his concern – which, oddly enough, seems genuine, she nods.

They have dinner outside, as the sun sets over the ocean. She can’t help noticing how young he looks (Twenty? Twenty-five tops?) and yet he seems much older than that.

She takes another bite from her pasta dish. It tastes of tomatoes and basil and it reminds her of a holiday she took once, many years ago… with her parents, she thinks, though she can’t recall their faces. Maybe that was all a dream too.

"Are we married?" she asks him, because it’s an explanation that might put all this into some kind of perspective.

He smiles and shakes his head. "No."

"Are we lovers?" Her bluntness seems to surprise him, but then she just shocked herself too.

"Not in this reality,” he says, and takes another sip from the red wine that’s neither too bitter nor too sweet and glows oddly in the playful light of the setting sun.

The current is changing again.

“What do you mean by that?” Hermione asks in a small, hesitant voice.

He slowly runs his hand up her bare arm. The gesture gives her goose bumps, and in one split second, she thinks she knows; she believes she remembers.

* * *

_Men in dark cloaks, in a partly overgrown forest near a castle._

“Bring her to safety. Don’t let any harm come to her. She’s more precious than she might appear at first glance.”

* * *

It’s clear as crystal.

Until it isn’t, and her conclusion turns into a muddled thought that soon becomes nothing more than just another drop in a bottomless ocean.

“Your pasta’s getting cold, Hermione,” he says with a smile.

She smiles back. Their eyes meet and she shivers again. She finds herself thinking of seagulls, and realizes that they’ve gone quiet now. The whole world seems silent. Almost as if time has stopped, especially for them.

“You do realize I would never hurt you, don’t you, Hermione?”

The word slips past her lips before she even realizes. “Yes.”

And she doesn’t doubt that she means it, though she’s not so certain for how long she’ll actually remember.

  


	6. Chapter 6

Hermione has been back amongst the waking for eight days now, and lately, more often than not, he notices that whenever he asks her something – even the simplest of questions, she draws a complete blank.

He can’t ignore that she was a lot more fun in the past when she was still more of a challenge to him.

She’s practically an empty shell now, a sketchy shadow of her former feisty self.

Sometimes, he wonders whether Bella was right, if he _did_ go too far, if it really was a very bad idea to ‘reconstruct’ five years of someone’s life, leaving out certain events that happened or might have occurred, only to replace them with others.

After all, nothing like this has never been attempted before – by anyone, but far be it for him to shy away from uncharted territory.

On the other hand, maybe he should have just started from scratch, Obliviated the girl completely and concentrated more on her vast potential than on giving her added incentive to help him.

And perhaps that Seer they’ve been calling upon isn’t the great genius her reputation claims she is, either.

Sometimes, when he’s feeling particularly doubtful about the future – the kind of anxiety that at all costs should remain a well-guarded secret from the others, lest it be used against him - he has to wonder whether aside from Bella and possibly Lucius Malfoy (though that man is probably far too full of himself to ever serve another properly), any one of his followers is all that useful.

Of course, Pettigrew makes a decent enough spy, as does Severus Snape, to an extent, even if the latter’s loyalties are dubious at best.

Still…

All things considered, this war is going according to plan and he should stop worrying so much. There is no rational reason to, and yet he does, probably because it’s frustrating to realize that he still hasn’t gained full control, isn’t completely in charge, and they’re almost behind on schedule as well, while he’s becoming far too distracted.

All because of _her_, and she was never supposed to get under his skin. Not like this.

Hermione walks into the room and gives him that vacant, distant look again.

“You took me to a Ball, didn’t you? And I wore a gorgeous blue dress and everyone looked at me, and you said I was the prettiest girl there, and you kissed me under the mistletoe, and…”

She trails off, twirls around the room and Tom swallows hard.

This type of behaviour is nothing like her.

He realizes now, more than ever before, that he has gone too far and that he has to put a halt to this, rectify the situation, assuming he still can.

He never intended to hurt her.

He still doesn’t.

And aside from that, should her mental state continue to decline like this, and should she keep sliding further down that dreadful downward spiral, he knows that very soon, she’ll be completely useless - to him, to his plans, to his future, to everything. And what a terrible waste wouldn’t that be?

She walks over to him. To his surprise, she sits down on his lap, wraps her arms around him and kisses him on the lips.

It leaves a bitter taste, he thinks, and this initiative really shouldn’t have been hers.

“What’s wrong, Tom?” she asks, clearly disappointed at his obvious disinterest. “Don’t you love me anymore?”

He swallows hard, wraps his arms around her and gently strokes her hair. “Of course I do, Hermione.” He supposes one more lie won’t do any more harm on the grand scale of things, though he’s no longer quite as confident that it actually is a lie because in a way, despite himself, he has become rather attached to this girl, who was only supposed to be a tool, a means to an end… She has grown to be much more than that to him now, even if it’s mildly daunting to contemplate what, exactly.

His words and gentle touches seem to give her the reassurance she craves because soon she’s smiling again.

He takes another deep, calming breath. He realizes full well that it’s too late to turn back the clock, but maybe they can still change course.

  


	7. Chapter 7

She always knocks twice before she enters his study, just so he’d know it’s her.

Not that it would be anyone else, of course, since there’s not another living soul around for miles, aside from the elves, and the occasional associate that pays Tom a visit. There are three of them, as far as she knows: a thin woman with a chilling laugh, a tall man with long blond hair and a posh accent, and a short, chubby fellow who – not to put too fine a point on it, looks rather rat-faced.

But it’s just another one of those things she and Tom found themselves doing after a while; another routine they slipped into, like dinners on the terrace and picnic lunches on the beach.

He looks up from the document he’s studying. It appears to be a map; one with numerous landmarks, so it’s probably not depicting anything from around here.

He smiles at her. “Yes, Hermione? What can I do for you?”

She looks at him as if in a dream.

She hears herself talking, telling him about Polyjuice Potion and misplaced whiskers and broken broomsticks and this really bizarre mirror a boy from her class discovered once. It shows you your heart’s desires, and she wonders what she would see were she to look into it, but then she supposes she already knows the answer to that, and she’s quite certain that he does, too.

He seems to know everything about her.

She questions him about a book she’s been reading. It’s one of many she has devoured lately, though she tends to forget most of their contents once she has absorbed them, notwithstanding the fact that she can also tell that she’s getting better.

She supposes the improvement must be due to that green potion he gives her to drink. For all its vileness, it does seem to work, and things are starting to make sense again - sometimes.

She knows there’s a war raging, with him and his followers on one side and a bunch of people on the other, and she thinks she met Harry Potter in a dream once when she fixed his glasses and to her immense surprise, discovered that he was very humble for someone of such great fame and power.

Tom Riddle, on the other hand, is clearly far from humble. He’s nowhere near modest either, and nothing or no one seems able to stop him from going after what he wants, and generally getting it too.

She frowns. Her thoughts are becoming hazy again, and her stomach is in knots whenever she tries to analyze what’s truly happening here, but then she supposes it doesn’t matter. She doesn’t need to figure it out. Maybe not every question requires an answer and besides, she’s here, with him, and he really treats her very well, even if he barely touches her and never in a way she’d like him to - the way he used to.

Or was that just a dream as well?

He seems to care for her, and the way in which he looks at her sometimes, like he’s looking at her now, leads her to believe that he returns her feelings, but for some reason, he also chooses not to act on them.

And she thinks that out of everything in her current life, he probably makes the least sense.

Why is he acting so cold? Weren’t they lovers before?

She turns around and walks over to the window. They’re on the second floor and when she directs her gaze outside, she can see the gulls above and the ocean below and the horizon in the distance.

The sun will be setting soon and she thinks it’s funny how fast dawn turns to dusk these days. She wonders if, perhaps, she has lost her grip on time in the very same way she must have surrendered her hold on reality quite a while ago.

She never notices him come up behind her. She isn’t aware of his presence at all; not until the unexpected exhalation of hot breath on the back of her neck sends a delightful tingle up and down her spine. This, she remembers. Doesn’t she?

“What are you looking at, Hermione?” he asks softly.

She turns around slowly, so slowly that it barely feels like she’s moving at all, and finds herself in his arms.

He frowns, appearing undecided at what to do next. Hesitation is written all over his handsome face, but then so is desire (she may not know much, but this she can tell), and so she finally makes the decision in his stead.

She leans up a little, closes the distance between them and kisses him.

She can’t tell whether he’s pleasantly surprised or if he was really expecting this all along. He’s so hard to read, most of the time, and he likes to play games too, challenge ideas _and_ people. But whatever the case, this time he shows no objections - none whatsoever. Not like he did a few days ago.

Instead, he pulls her even closer and kisses her back passionately.

His hands wander down her back and she feels her sense of here and now slip away again, utterly and completely, but she doesn’t mind.

She supposes she should, really, but a little voice inside of her tells her that it doesn’t matter. Things have changed. Nothing matters any longer.

Nothing except Tom.


	8. Chapter 8

Staring out of one of the grubby windows of number twelve, Grimmauld Place, Harry Potter is once more overcome with a strong sense of regret.

They’ve been discussing it again downstairs; the possibility of having Ginny admitted to St.Mungo’s.

They keep telling him in whispered words and veiled terms that the girl _isn’t well._

As if Harry isn’t smart enough to have noticed as much, himself. He wonders when this nonsense will finally stop.

They expect him to save their world, yet they treat him like a child and withhold information from him, supposedly for his own benefit, while Ginny, who’s the closest thing to a sister he’s ever known…

* * *

_"If it weren't for me, if I hadn’t been so bloody stupid and utterly naïve, Harry, Hermione would still be here with us."_

_"It should have been me he took, not her. It would have served me right for being taken in by him and his stupid mind games.”_

_“She warned me, over and over again, but I didn’t want to hear and I didn’t listen. I thought she was just acting out of jealousy and spite. I really must be- I’m a terrible person, Harry. She meant well, and now, because of me, she-”_

* * *

Ever since that night in the Chamber, Ginny has grown a lot quieter, almost withdrawn and locked up within herself, and in between the long guilty silences, in shrill contrast, the bouts of rage and vocal self-loathing burst to the surface.

A month after those dreadful events, she chopped off her beautiful red hair too, using scissors she stole from a Muggleborn.

Ron was furious when he saw what she’d done.

When she came to Hogwarts, Molly shared his anger and as soon as her children were out of sight, she wept quietly in McGonagall’s office.

Ever since that awful day, Ginny insists on keeping her hair as short as possible because she wants to look as horrible as she feels, or so she says. She never wants anyone to come near her again.

She’s nothing like the girl they used to know, barely a shadow of her former feisty self, and although her brief encounter with Tom Riddle didn’t cost her her life, she ended up paying an immensely high price nonetheless.

Harry sighs. Whenever his thoughts drift back to that fateful night, he feels responsible, because it really should have been _him_ who faced Tom Riddle – who, as Harry later found out, was actually Voldemort, and why isn’t anyone ever upfront enough to tell him things like that before it’s far too late?

But there’s hope still. Just a tiny morsel of it, but it’s all he has to cling to, and he so vehemently wants to believe that all will be right again some day.

It’s mildly reassuring that no body was ever found - not in the Chamber, not in the castle, and the Ministry even dredged the lake when they learned of the Dark Lord’s supposed return.

Harry’s almost certain that Hermione is still alive somewhere. And wherever she is, _He_’s probably there with her.

The assumption cushions Harry’s remorse, be it only slightly, because his gut feeling tells him that something is very wrong with his friend, and that Voldemort/Riddle/however the bastard refers to himself these days has her firmly in his clutches, but maybe, and no matter what the others may say - the only one who seems to believe him is Luna, maybe Hermione can still be rescued.

And perhaps when she finally returns, Ginny will feel better too, and everything will be back to normal, or at least life will be more bearable than it presently is.

Under no circumstances can he give up hope, no matter how the odds keep increasing as time flies by far too quickly…

But for reasons he doesn’t comprehend he’s convinced that Hermione is still out there somewhere and that he will find her.

He has to.

She doesn’t belong with _Him._


	9. Chapter 9

The woman dressed all in black smiles wickedly as she makes her way up the steps leading to the front door, her velvet cloak billowing in the breeze.

Today has been another staggering triumph for their side. Three Aurors were captured and soon thereafter, killed. Her master will be most pleased and extremely proud of her.

A house-elf answers the door and leads her to the vast library.

In a split second, Bellatrix’ mood changes. She blinks when she catches sight of them, barely able to believe her own eyes.

His Lordship and the infuriating Mudblood are standing on the small balcony, their arms wrapped tightly around each other. They’re kissing passionately and seem completely unaware of their surroundings.

Bellatrix has great difficulty suppressing the urge to curse or scream or in some other manner make her displeasure and disgust known. Yet she manages to remain silent, for it isn’t her place to comment on his private life. Although, honestly, she considers the scene in front of her to be revolting beyond words.

His plan to make Granger his second in command is one thing, and questionable enough in itself, but does he have to go so far as to bed the wretched girl too? Surely, with his power, looks and charisma he can have any woman he desires?

This development is far too risky, she thinks, as she remains there, motionless, for a moment longer. Before he fully realizes what’s going on, that girl will have wrapped him around her little finger, clouded his judgment and perhaps he’ll even fall for her in the end, assuming he’s capable of such a thing.

His Lordship returned as a sixteen-year-old, and he has barely reached the age of twenty-one now, technically, and sometimes she almost forgets the fact that despite his impressive wisdom he’s also quite young and possibly impressionable to a point.

She shakes her head and grits her teeth and part of her already regrets thinking of her Master as some kind of youth, for he’s more than that and Granger’s hardly any match for him – is she?

She turns on her heel and stealthily exists the room again. Out in the corridor, she delivers a swift kick to the baffled house-elf, before she counts to ten and knocks at the door – loudly.

Some time passes before a shout of “Come in!” is heard. Bellatrix sneers. She takes a deep breath, opens the door and walks into the library, acting as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened.

“Bella,” Tom greets her from behind his desk.

“My Lord,” she replies and curtsies respectfully.

“I believe you and Hermione haven’t yet been officially introduced,” he adds. He gestures towards the sofa, and Bellatrix turns around to see Hemione sitting there. The girl has a vacant expression on her face, but her eyes seem to hold a fire, a strong sense of conviction and perhaps, Bellatrix is pleased to note, also a hint of envy.

“Nice to meet you,” Bellatrix says politely and smiles in a way that might be perceived as friendly by anyone who doesn’t actually know her.

“Likewise, Mrs. Lestrange,” Hermione replies, and Bellatrix isn’t sure whether to be amused, flattered or annoyed that the girl already knows her name. She wonders what else that little Mudblood knows, how much His Lordship has callously revealed about himself and his plans.

“What brings you here, Bella?” Tom asks.

Hermione’s presence temporarily forgotten, the woman starts to report of today’s victory, almost gushing over the Death Eaters’ accomplishments, a surprise attack on some Auror camp that afternoon, three people died and many others were tortured and left behind to perish. “One of the casualties is Shacklebolt,” she says proudly. “Fought valiantly, of course, but the man was no match whatsoever for Fenrir.”

Tom smirks.

“Poor Harry Potter will be ever so distraught,” Bella adds with a laugh and Tom laughs too, and from her spot on the sofa, Hermione watches him intensely.

He’s like a different person, almost, as he sits there, pleased to the point of gleeful at another’s grave misfortune.

Hermione doesn’t know much about this war, or wars in general. She assumes them to be mostly political, though this one appears to be personal too, largely personal, almost as though politics are merely an excuse.

Does Tom perhaps have some kind of score to settle with the other people involved? Did they do him some terrible wrong, hurt him in some way, is that was this is really all about?

Then it dawns on her.

_Harry Potter._

She knew a boy by that name once. Though he seemed quite harmless, quite… good. Not the type who’d hurt anyone.

But of course appearances can be deceiving.

She resolves to ask Tom about it later, if she remembers to, if she doesn’t forget, if her mind doesn’t wander off again, taking the loaded question with it.


	10. Chapter 10

She walks into the room and finds him standing there, lost in thought, and staring at that blasted map again, in the same way he often does.

She would like to know what it all means, what all those strategically positioned little flags signify, but she refrains from asking because she’s under the impression that she’s not supposed to understand.

He seems determined not to involve her in this war; as if it’s an aspect of his life she has no right to be a part of - not yet.

“I’ll tell you when you’re ready,” he says whenever the subject comes up, and she always wonders what exactly she’s expected to be ready _for_.

Still, she never questions further, because she wouldn’t want him to shut her out completely, especially now, when at the back of her mind, she has this nagging suspicion that someone else is just biding her time, waiting, overly keen to take Hermione’s place as soon as the opportunity arises.

Of course, Hermione realizes every time she stops for a second to appeal to what little sense of reason she still has left, that it could all be just her imagination working overtime. Perhaps her faltering self-confidence is making her see ghosts and chase shadows into dark corners where only dust and cobwebs linger.

But nonetheless, the thought of Bellatrix Lestrange fills Hermione with dread. Even though she barely knows the woman, Hermione doesn't trust her, and wonders what Lestrange even wants from Tom; because there seems to be _something_, and Hermione can’t shake the feeling that whatever it is, it's definitely personal.

Hermione asked Tom about his relationship with Bellatrix once, confronted him with her suspicions, and he was quite adamant in his response.

_“Are you sure that’s all she is to you, Tom, an invaluable asset to your army?”_

"Of course. Don't be silly, Hermione. Bella’s a happily married woman, and besides, I never mix business with pleasure.”

Hermione first realized it then, and she knows it now, with sobering clarity. Tom lies with the careless ease most people breathe.

After all, he promised Hermione he’d make her second in command. “Some day soon,” he said, “when you’re feeling better.”

And yet he kisses her too, although she has to wonder why all they ever do these days is kiss, and she almost had to move heaven and earth to even get him that far.

Didn't they used to share a lot more, or is she mistaken and were those only dreams? Illusions?

Then, maybe he has Bella lined up for such purposes now; Bella, who’s older, more experienced in certain areas, which probably makes her better company on some levels. Not to mention the woman’s regal demeanour, immaculate attire and that posh accent. She’s clearly an aristocrat, although Hermione questions Lestrange’s sanity even more than she does her own. But the woman no doubt makes a far better impression and Hermione may be fairly ignorant where politics are concerned, but she does understand that appearances are half the battle.

Hermione sighs. She walks to stand behind him and wraps her arms around his waist, pulling him closer.

She knows she’s being forward, pushy even, but she has to get his attention somehow, win him back or win him over, and it suddenly strikes her that she’s done this before. She must have, if only in one of those strange, surreal dreams that are clear as crystal the following morning and yet never make any sense when she really tries to analyze them.

Outside, storm clouds are moving, gathering over the ocean, painting an ominous sky. The gulls are quiet now, and nowhere to be seen, as if they’re hiding from an impending disaster only they know about.

She can tell she’s affecting him, and she doesn’t know whether to be relieved or nervous.

Suddenly, he turns to face her and then he spins her around, so their roles are reversed and she’s standing there, trapped, between him and the table.

But it’s a nice kind of trapped, she thinks. At least she finally has his attention now, just like she used to.

“I promise you, Hermione,” he says, as if he can read her mind and see the doubt that lingers there, “my interest in Bella is purely professional.”

“Do you ever kiss her?”

“No,” he replies, sounding quite sincere, “I’ve never as much as touched her, aside from the occasional handshake or pat on the shoulder when such was appropriate.”

“Well, I honestly don’t think she would mind if you did,” Hermione says with a smirk, meaning every word because in her own way, she can tell. She has noticed the way Bellatrix looks at Tom sometimes, quite often in fact, generally when he’s not watching her. The woman gazes at him with adoration, verging on awe.

“She loves her husband, Hermione,” Tom says reassuringly, “and even if she _were_ attracted to me, such feelings would be utterly pointless.”

“Oh. You mean, you wouldn’t…?”

“No,” he answers her unfinished question. “Definitely not.”

Hermione smiles, and steps even closer to him, fast closing whatever distance remains between them.

“Why do we only kiss?” she asks him, with all the bluntness of the Gryffindor she vaguely remembers being, many moons ago.

“What else would you like to do?” he asks, with his eyebrows raised as if he’s challenging her. She wouldn’t be surprised if that’s exactly what he’s doing, and there’s something about his voice that makes her shiver and wonder if, perhaps, now would be a good time to run.

But running would make her seem weak, which she’s not. She’s just a little nervous because it has been so long, assuming it ever happened at all, and besides, Bellatrix surely wouldn’t run from a challenge, and certainly not from one issued by _him_.

“I want-“ Hermione whispers. Her voice sounds young and small and yet it shatters the silence like a gunshot. “I want _you_.”

Tom moves even closer, if that’s possible, and she thinks she can remember this, his body so close to hers, but this is different and so much better than what she remembers because this is _here_ and _now_ and _real_.

He kisses her again and in one swift move, he lifts her up until she’s sitting on the table.

He leans down and she knows what’s about to happen, and she’s vaguely aware of the map crinkling and creasing underneath her, underneath them both, and soundlessly, flags that must be important drop down to the floor, as if they no longer matter. And she supposes they don’t, at least, not for now.

She thinks that this is better than in a dream and she never wants to let him go.

Outside, a bolt of thunder pierces the sky. It’s the first of many before the cloudburst.


	11. Chapter 11

Hermione wakes up to bright sunlight and the fragrant aroma of strong coffee. She opens her eyes and stretches leisurely. She feels more rested than she has done in ages, but her giddy exhilaration fast turns into bitter disappointment when she looks around and realizes that she's lying in his bed alone.

"Where's Tom?" she asks the elf who just placed the breakfast tray on the bedside table.

"Master had to leave. Very urgent business, Miss. Will be back as soon as he can. Told Fawkley to tell Miss must not worry."

"Oh. All right. Thank you, Fawkley."

The elf nods and quickly scurries out of the room, while Hermione fights an overwhelming urge to cry.

The previous night was amazing, everything she'd hoped for and more besides, but now... Why couldn’t he have stayed, or at least woken her before he went?

Has he left her alone before, she wonders? She doesn’t think so, but her memory still feels like it’s full of holes and she can’t remember for certain.

She reminds herself that there is a war raging and that Tom plays an important part in it.

She still doesn’t know what his role involves, exactly, and she’s terrible at guessing, but she trusts he wouldn’t ever leave her behind; at least not unless he had a very good reason to do so.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a pounding headache assaults her, together with the recollection of a dark hour spent in a dreary chamber.

Her and him, and poor unconscious Ginny on the floor, and that malicious sneer of his – how could she have forgotten that?

_“Amazing, isn’t it, how much damage a silly little book can do in the hands of a silly little girl? But of course, you're a lot smarter than she is, aren't you, Hermione? I do believe you might come in handy some day. Yes, very handy indeed. Potter will be kicking himself when he realizes I took away the best and closest ally he’d have ever had.”_

Her stomach churns, a wave of nausea overcomes her, and she thinks she can practically feel her skin crawl.

Tom isn’t what he seems, or at least there’s more to him than the naked eye might see. There’s a side of him that he’s been hiding well; at least from her.

_Bellatrix probably knows,_ she thinks bitterly.

Shivering, she slumps down into a heap on the bed, wrapping the sheets tightly around her body.

She already knew he was a liar, but she still trusted him to tell the truth about something as important as this.

How could she have been so utterly blind, so immensely naïve? This whole set-up has been a complete fabrication from the very start, and perhaps she should have expected as much because didn’t her mother use to say that when something seems too good to be true, it generally is?

She wonders how her parents are these days, and her friends. Ronald – that’s his name, isn’t it?

_Ron._

And Harry and Dean and Seamus and Neville and some girl called Hannah with rosy cheeks and a friendly smile and blond pigtails with pink ribbons.

Hermione swallows hard. What on earth has Riddle done with her, _to_ her?

In spite of his kindness, his gentleness, the considerate, almost loving way he treated her last night, underneath it all, she fears she has become nothing more than his plaything, his personal whore.

Hermione balls her hands into fists and buries her face in one of the soft, fluffy pillows. They smell like him, almost as if they’re mocking her.

Bitter tears begin to fall but change nothing.

Maybe later, as soon as she has managed to compose herself again, she’ll think of a way out, a means to escape him…


	12. Chapter 12

Tom never used to put up such strong Wards before.

Clearly, he changed his mind sometime before he went, and Hermione has no way of knowing whether he did so to keep other people out or to ensure she stays in.

Whichever the case may be, she can’t go for walks on the beach anymore, let alone consider a possible escape. Any freedom, any semblance of autonomy she once had, he has taken from her.

Nevertheless, and even without a wand at her disposal, she remains smart and resourceful.

Without as much as a hint of hesitation, she breaks the glass casing that holds the pistols. She assumes they’re only there for decorative purposes, but nonetheless, they both turn out to be conveniently loaded, and she can’t help but wonder whether Tom even knows that.

Probably not, she decides; not if he’s one of those Purebloods who think they’re better than everyone else and who never bothered to learn about Muggle customs.

He _is_ a Pureblood, isn’t he?

She hasn’t a clue. He never mentioned his family to her.

Hermione shrugs resignedly, and decides she really should stop wondering and caring about him and what makes him tick, since all that is no longer relevant. Her own safety is her main priority now. First and foremost, she has to look out for herself.

A very long time ago, in what almost feels like a previous life, at some funfair in Brighton, an uncle showed her how to aim and shoot.

He was reluctant at first, kept saying that messing about with rifles wasn’t the sort of thing a young lady should be doing, but she looked at him with big, tearful, begging eyes, so in the end, he gave in and taught her anyway.

You _can_ kill a wizard with bullets, can’t you, she wonders? Provided he can’t magically deflect them?

She dreads the day when time will probably tell.

She takes the pistols up to her room, hides them at the bottom of the vast wardrobe, and goes down to the library.

And that’s where she finds them, almost as though he intended her to: assorted books on memory altering potions and mind control magic that makes the Imperius Curse pale in comparison, and finally, she discovers what Horcruxes are and what their creation involves.

She shudders, realizing that this is probably just the tip of the iceberg.

What has Tom been doing, exactly? What evil forces is he planning to unleash?

And then, suddenly, it hits her like a ton of bricks.

Harry Potter’s parents were killed by some powerful Dark Wizard, weren’t they? Is Tom trying to be like him? Is he some kind of... _copycat_? Or is Tom in fact…?

_No._ Hermione swallows hard. _He can’t be. That Dark Wizard has been gone for years. _

“Nevertheless, if he were Voldemort, that would explain the current war,” a niggling voice in her head insists.

She wraps her cardigan more tightly around her, suddenly overcome by a mortifying chill that has nothing to do with the temperature of the room she’s in, because the library is pleasantly warm, though the glow of the lit fireplace is more ominous than comforting.

With shaking hands, she turns the page. She’s terrified to read more, but she’s also too responsible to ignore the truth, so she has to press on, no matter how much all this unsettles and distresses her, one grim discovery after the other.

She doesn’t hear him come in, so wrapped up is she in what she’s reading. She doesn’t see him before he’s standing right in front of her and coughs pointedly in an attempt to get her attention.

She looks up into a familiar face and almost gasps.

He has older features now, more of a man than a boy, but she remembers those challenging grey eyes and she’d recognize that superior smirk anywhere.

_Draco Malfoy._

In that very moment, all Hermione can think is that an already desperate situation has just become a whole lot worse.


	13. Chapter 13

“I’ve been sent here on a mission to protect you,” Malfoy says, and crosses his arms in what appears to be an authoritative manner.

Hermione looks him straight in the eye, determined not to be outdone, let alone allow herself to be intimidated by him; even though he is the one currently holding the wand and his physical strength surely surpasses her own.

“_Sent_ here?” she asks. “By whom?”

“Take an educated guess, Granger,” he replies, and he sneers at her in the same condescending way he used to do when they were both still at Hogwarts, where he treated her like she was mere dust under his shoes, as if each and every one of her kind, every single Muggleborn was a blemish on society.

Tom feels the same way, doesn’t he, she ponders? It’s a sobering subject to have to consider, so she tries to avoid it as much as she can.

“T- Tom instructed you to come here?” she stammers, but quickly regains her composure. “You must be joking, Malfoy!”

“Oh, trust me,” he says, “I’m not exactly over the moon about it, either, having been sent to collect his piece of stuff, and it doesn’t help that it’s you, either. I _am_ his fifth in command, after all.”

“Fifth?” Hermione gives him a challenging look and remarks dryly, “How unfortunate. Your father must be ever so disappointed. You didn’t even make the top three, Malfoy.”

This earns her a venomous glare. “I do suggest you behave yourself, Granger,” he snaps. “I may have been sent here to protect you, but how does that saying go again: ‘accidents lurk in every corner’?”

With that, he haughtily strides out of the room, and the two of them barely speak again.

Truthfully, there are dozens of questions she’s dying to ask him. There are countless answers she craves, for they might help her put an end to this gnawing uncertainty that’s presently doing her head in and clouding any sense of reality she has recently regained.

But still, she hardly thinks he’s the right person to ask, and besides, he’d probably bluntly refuse to answer, anyway, or he’d string her along endlessly, out of spite or out of habit.

The two weeks that follow they both spend in mutual avoidance.

On the first day of the third week (a Tuesday, she thinks, though she can’t be absolutely certain; her mind still isn’t what it used to be), he announces that they’ll be taking a little journey.

“It’s no longer safe to stay here, Granger,” he tells her, “so my orders have changed.”

Hermione wonders whether this means that the good guys are coming; that Harry and Ron and Dumbledore know about this place, and that they’re finally on their way to rescue her.

She sincerely doubts that Malfoy possesses the skill to read minds (he didn’t seem that brilliant back at school, except perhaps at Potions), so it’s an unpleasant surprise, a proverbial slap in the face, when he says, “Don’t waste your time getting your hopes up, Granger. This lighthouse will be blown to smithereens, no questions asked, and no matter who’s in it. As far as your little troop of heroes is concerned, you’re dead. They gave up looking for you ages ago. They even held a memorial service in your honour. It was quite touching; in a sappy, overly sentimental way.”

To her dismay, Hermione’s eyes fill with tears. The last thing she wants is to appear weak in front of this smug, arrogant bastard, but it’s such a lot to take in. She doesn’t know whether to believe him this time, either. Did they really give up on her so readily, so easily? Even Harry?

Then again, it _has_ been over five years.

All things considered, she decides she probably has no choice but to obey and to follow Malfoy, allow him to take her to Tom, wherever Tom is.

Besides, the truth of the matter is that Hermione wouldn’t mind seeing Tom again. She needs closure, and then she must deal with him as well, one way or another, before it’s too late for them all.


	14. Chapter 14

Malfoy Apparates her to a stately but gloomy looking house in the middle of what must have been a rather posh street once. The place doesn’t look the least bit familiar, but she doesn’t want to ask where they are. Malfoy can’t be trusted, and the way she sees it, the less she has to do with him, the better.

She takes a deep breath before she follows him up the steps. Her mind briefly wanders to the two pistols, concealed at the bottom of her suitcase.

When push comes to shove, she doubts whether she’ll actually have the heart to use them, but nevertheless, carrying them around, just knowing she has two weapons in her possession, makes her feel safer, stronger and more _grounded_, even if she’s probably only fooling herself.

Reluctantly, Hermione allows her former classmate to lead her down a large hallway. The carpeted walls are decorated with antique wizarding portraits, some more creepy than others. She can feel them watching her, judging her, sizing her up, but thankfully, not a single one of them breathes a word.

“I’ll be right back,” Malfoy says. “Wait here.”

Hermione nods and does as she’s told, though she cannot comprehend why she insists on taking the path of the least resistance. Surely, Tom wouldn’t be impressed if he knew how Malfoy has been speaking to her?

Which, Hermione decides, is another thing that doesn’t quite add up.

She’s the Dark Lord’s lover, is she not? So shouldn’t that make the Slytherin git act accommodating and respectful towards her, instead of more arrogant and condescending than she has ever experienced him before? Does he suspect that she has unravelled Riddle’s scheme? But how could he even think anything along those lines? She never gave him a single clue. She has barely spoken to him at all.

Whatever the case may be, all this leads her to conclude one thing: Draco Malfoy is up to something.

She doesn’t have to wait very long before she finds out what it is.

He saunters back out of the room with an almost triumphant expression on his pointy face, and declares, “His Lordship will see you now, Granger. If you’d care to follow me?”

“Right,” Hermione says.

Her head held high, taking larger steps than usual, she strides into the room, but instantly stops dead in her tracks when she sees who’s standing there behind the desk. It’s the last person she expected, and it’s definitely not Tom.

“I told you I knew where she was, _and_ that I’d bring her back safely, didn’t I?” Malfoy says with the smuggest of grins. “Impressed yet, are you, -“ he chuckles. "- your Lordship?"

“I-“ The young man looks his female visitor up and down in bewilderment. “H- Hermione?” he asks, hesitantly. “Is that really you?”

She nods and swallows the sudden lump in her throat. “Yes,” she says brokenly. “Yes, Harry, it is.”

He smiles at her then, a bright, relieved smile, and rushes towards her and pulls her into a tight embrace. “Thank God. I thought we’d lost you forever.”

“No need to go so far as to call me ‘God’, Potter,” Malfoy says dryly, but the other two people in the room make a point of ignoring him.

Hermione buries her head against Harry’s shoulder, unable to stop some happy tears from falling.

She never as much as dared to hope that one day she’d see one of her friends again. She wasn’t even sure if any of them were still alive.

Like every war, this one has already claimed plenty of casualties. Or so she’s heard, picked up from little things she overheard Tom say to Bella and Malfoy Senior and certain others who attended secret meetings at the lighthouse.

She pulls back and looks at Harry’s face, which, like Malfoy’s, hasn’t changed much. He just looks older, and probably a lot more tired than he should.

There are a thousand things Hermione would like to ask her old friend, and the first one that comes to mind, though it’s more of an observation, is probably the most obvious.

“Malfoy is on _your_ side?”

“I’m the best spy The Order has, Granger,” Malfoy replies before Harry has the chance to say anything. “Save for possibly Severus, though we have reasons to suspect he really has his own agenda.”

“Severus?” she parrots. The name sounds vaguely familiar, but she can’t think why.

“Professor Snape,” Harry clarifies, and Hermione nods.

She swallows hard and looks from Harry to Malfoy and then back again, before she asks her second question.

Her voice trembles, because part of her is very much afraid of the truth.

“What happened to To-“ She coughs, and quickly corrects herself. “Where is the Dark Lord?”

She takes another deep, bracing breath and is horrified and disgusted with herself when all she can think, as she awaits their answer, is:

_“Please, don’t let it turn out that you’ve harmed him.”_


	15. Chapter 15

He still haunts her dreams, even though, technically, she has been freed from his influence and should be ready to move on now, to pick up the pieces and go back to living her life the way she chooses to.

That is to say, as far as she’s aware, unless there was a lot more to it than she realized, to the magic, potions and machinations to which he subjected her for so long; the better part of five year.

Yet she still feels like she’s somehow under his spell.

It’s almost as if the passionate night they spent together forged some kind of bond; or perhaps it sealed one that was already present but she never felt its strength this vividly before.

Or maybe she has simply fallen in love with him and truly, when she stops to think about it, that’s the most daunting possibility of them all.

At seventeen, Hermione wouldn’t know what being in love even feels like.

She has nothing to compare her current feelings to, after all; aside from a vague recollection of some juvenile crush many years ago on some professor whose name she can’t even remember.

He was nothing like Tom, though. She knows that much. But then she doesn’t suppose that anyone else is, or ever will be again.

She doesn’t know whether to be amused or irritated when she looks back on the smug, self-satisfied manner in which Malfoy told her about her former captor’s current predicament.

* * *

_“He’s being held deep down in the dungeons, Granger. He never knew what hit him when he found out that the secret meeting we’d set up was in fact a trap.”_

_“What will happen to him?” she asks, fighting to keep the concern out of her voice._

_It’s not Malfoy, but Harry who answers that question. “He’ll be brought to trial as soon as possible. That is, from the moment his high-ranking followers have been captured as well. We wouldn’t want to run the risk of their lot attempting some kind of rescue mission, would we? It’s just a bloody shame the Dementors can only kiss him once. The bastard deserves far worse than that, for what he did to you, alone, Hermione.”_

* * *

Five days have gone by since.

Five long, confusing, turbulent days, and there is still so much that doesn’t make one bit of sense to Hermione.

For one thing, isn’t Harry supposed to _kill_ Voldemort, not simply have him arrested? Hasn’t there been some kind of prophecy, or was that, too, nothing but a dream? Or isn’t Tom _quite_ Voldemort yet?

The more she thinks about it all, the less she understands, and it seems to get worse with every day she spends amongst people she’s supposed to trust, people she thought she once knew.

Except, she really doesn’t, because there’s so little about her inner self that resembles the old Hermione anymore.

Ginny’s visit, on the sixth day, is a shock to Hermione’s system, as well as an eye-opener _and_ a turning point.

The girl breaks down in front of her, laughing and crying at the same time, and Hermione knows she should feel something akin to relief or closure, and she supposes she ought to be getting ready, preparing to go home, to return to her family, who must be terribly worried.

But still, all she can think is that this feels wrong. And she assumes Crookshanks must feel it too, because he has refused to leave her room ever since they first arrived.

Oddly enough, her present reality seems more unsettling and unreal than the false memories, the fabrications Tom poisoned her mind with, and she wonders if, perhaps, she should opt for the danger that might just mean the end of her, but which also holds a soothing familiarity that silences any worries she may have.

After Ginny’s departure, it’s some gruff Auror by the name of Moody who unintentionally makes Hermione’s decision for her.

“It’s very lucky that back at his little love nest, your emotions and intentions were so transparent, Miss Granger. According to Malfoy, the hate was practically radiating off of you,” he informs her with an almost mocking grin. “Had the bastard corrupted you, got into your head as well as your knickers, you’d be going down with him.”

She glares at him then, just for a moment, before she replies with a tight smile, “I’m smarter than that.”

And she doesn’t doubt, not even for a second, the undeniable truth of her words. She _is_ smarter; smarter than them and maybe even more cunning than the one who originally put her in this awkward position.

Ginny never noticed when Hermione took her wand, nor did Harry or Malfoy realize that someone was listening in and overheard them that morning as they were discussing the new passwords

Much later that night, when she’s certain all the occupants of the house, save for some elves that never pay her any attention anyway, have gone to bed, Hermione makes her move.

She takes a deep, bracing breath, straightens her shoulders and silently begins her descent to the dungeons.

The heavy cell door opens with an ominous creak, and revenge is just about the last thing on her mind.


	16. Chapter 16

Tom doesn’t look at all surprised to see her, but then she didn’t really expect him to.

Even now, even _here_, he still seems to know her better than she does herself, and she has finally learned to accept that fact, almost to the point where it no longer angers or frustrates her. Well, not as much as it used to.

Which isn’t to say that she’s not upset with this whole situation, or with him.

She _is_, and some kind of explanation on his behalf would be rather nice.

An apology would be even better, of course, but she has her doubts whether remorse is a word he’s even familiar with.

Hermione enters his cell in the swift, confident manner she supposes Lestrange would, and she’s tempted to ask whether he considers her an equal to his cherished Bella yet, or at least just as determined and loyal.

After all, she’s on the verge of breaking her best friend’s heart for him.

“My dear Hermione,” Tom says with the smuggest of smirks, as he looks her up and down appreciatively, “whatever took you so long?”

She meets his gaze and she can practically feel her eyes flare.

She couldn’t curse him if she tried, or hurt him all that much even if she wanted to, but that doesn’t mean she’s willing to let him get away with this so easily.

He lied to her constantly. He manipulated her all the time. He polluted her mind for his own twisted amusement.

He butchered Ginny’s self-confidence too, and practically destroyed the girl’s spirit.

And Hermione doesn’t even want to think, not for one moment, about what he must have done to countless other innocent people, or the war he started based on principles that, to her, make very little sense.

Why did she have to be so weak as to fall for him, she wonders sadly? That part of the equation remains a mystery to her, and not having all the answers only fuels her anger further.

Hermione takes a deep breath to stop from yelling at him, because if she were to do that, it would certainly attract the kind of attention they really can’t afford.

She takes a few steps closer and without hesitation, she does the first thing that comes to mind.

She slaps him across the face, _hard_.

To her dismay, he barely even flinches. Instead, he snags her hand out of the air and pulls her to him, flush against his body.

“Well,” he remarks, sneering deviously, “I had no idea you liked it rough, Hermione. You should have told me, my dear. I would have been only too happy to oblige.”

She glares at him then, or she tries to, but she is soon aghast to discover that her anger has dissipated and that all of a sudden, her heart is no longer in it.

She has missed him terribly, and she realizes now, with painful clarity, that her feelings for him no longer have anything to do with any spells or potions he subjected her to; only with him, and how he makes her feel; cherished and alive.

She opens her mouth to say something, _anything_ to save face, but he silences her with a passionate kiss.

Somewhere at the back of her mind, she expects it to turn aggressive, considering what she just did to him, but it never does.

Instead, his hands slide down her body slowly, sensuously, until they come to rest on her hips.

She shivers, well aware where this is headed if she doesn’t stop him soon.

“We have to leave, Tom,” she says, determined not to let a desire that’s as much her own as it is his sweep her away.

“We will,” he whispers against her hair. “Very soon.”

“I think I know of a way to get you out,” she offers feebly. Her mood is fast turning desperate, torn between needing to make him stop but _ReallyTrulyActually_ not wanting him to, and she’s certain he can sense her inner turmoil. No doubt her small voice and the ragged, uneven way in which she’s breathing are giving her away.

“That’s splendid, but you mustn’t worry about any of that now. I’m sure the other guard, the one you _didn’t_ Stupefy mere moments ago, is already passed out drunk somewhere. Did you know that he's capable of going through an entire bottle of Firewhiskey in less than half an hour? Rather impressive.” He lets out a low chuckle. “You and I can sneak upstairs to get your cat and then we can leave through the back door and Disapparate. I know the perfect place to go to.”

“But I thought-“

Soon, Hermione’s head is reeling as the weight of his words sinks in.

Tom could easily have left already, saved his own skin, but he didn’t.

Instead, he chose to stay behind for her, and the realization is as scary as it is reassuring, and she really wishes he would stop kissing her neck like that, right about _now_, and take a few steps back, give her some room to breathe, because he’s making her tremble with longing, and he’s confusing her to the point where she can barely think straight anymore, or even think at all.

“Isn’t it obvious yet?” he asks in a whisper. “You’re a smart girl. I’m sure you’re capable of putting two and two together. A few days ago, that Malfoy boy was here to gloat. He’s every bit as full of himself as his father is, incidentally, and equally transparent. He informed me that they were holding you prisoner and that you had told them everything.”

“I didn’t,” she says, “honestly,” but she doubts he’s even listening anymore.

His hands are wandering under her dress and she supposes she really _should_ stop him because this is neither the appropriate time nor place for that sort of thing, but she doesn’t want to.

All she wants is him, right away, even if it has to be against the wall of a nasty dungeon cell

She craves his reassurance. She needs this lie.

She’s vaguely aware of an inner voice, possibly her conscience, scolding her that she’s killing off an important part of herself, that the old Hermione would never act like this, not in a million years, but her only response is that the old Hermione - whoever she was - doesn’t matter.

Not anymore.

“You’re mine,” Tom says and lifts her up slightly.

“Yes,” she agrees in a whisper as she wraps her arms around his shoulders.

Not before long, he moves inside her, and suddenly everything makes sense again, or as much as it ever will, and somewhere through her lust-filled daze, she realizes that he’s right.

Perhaps he always was.


	17. Chapter 17

Harry plops himself down on the sofa and cradles his head in his hands in disbelief.

So Hermione has disappeared again, and so has _he_, but Harry’s no longer naïve enough to assume that Riddle dragged her along against her will; not this time.

Harry has been fighting this war for far too long. He has seen too much, has experienced many terrible things and plenty of bitter betrayal: Brothers turning against brothers, close friends ending up as ardent enemies.

_And enemies becoming lovers_, he thinks as he glances at Malfoy, who’s sitting behind a desk at the other side of the room, in complete silence, not even bothering to hide the defeat that’s written all over his pale face.

The lives of Malfoy’s parents are endangered now, since their son has revealed himself to be a spy, and Harry wonders whether Hermione realizes the possible impact of her actions, not just on his own life, or Malfoy’s, but on everybody’s fate and future.

The entire wizarding community will most certainly suffer the consequences, and most likely a large part of the Muggle world will be affected as well, as long as the Dark Lord remains at large…

Harry sighs resignedly.

He can barely believe he let Riddle slip through his fingers or that Hermione would even do something like that; betray him after he tried his very utmost to track her down, help her, make her feel welcome and at home… All those years, he kept hoping, against all odds, praying to any deity he could think of, for a chance to see her again, even when everyone else had already given her up for dead ages ago.

It pains him to realize that Moody, in all his cutting cynicism, was absolutely right. Holding Riddle here was a foolish risk. It should have been foreseen that Hermione would try to find him, and that part Harry might have understood, had it involved her wanting to get even with the bastard, but _this_…

Who could have ever imagined that she’d help him escape and then run off with him?

Harry shakes his head sadly and punches one of the sofa cushions in frustration.

“Chin up, Potter,” Malfoy says. It’s the first time he speaks in over an hour, and that’s not like him at all. “We’ll find them soon enough. My favourite aunt is already behind bars and it won’t be long before we’ve captured the others too. Who knows? Bella might crack once she realizes she’s going straight back to Azkaban if she refuses to cooperate. It seems unlikely to me that her precious Lord means that much to her.”

“I hope you’re right,” Harry replies softly, and then he asks hesitantly, almost as if he’s scared to utter the words, which he is, really, because he knows Malfoy will never say anything he wants to hear just for the sake of sparing his feelings or humouring him, “Um, Draco, have you ever considered-“

“Yes?”

“What if Hermione’s really planning something totally different? What if this is all part of some big plan of hers to help us? Maybe she’s really on our side, after all? You know what she’s like, how stubborn she can be…”

Draco shakes his head wearily. “If an unhealthy dose of self-delusion and denial is what it’ll take to help you get through this,” he replies sardonically, “by all means, Potter, knock yourself out.”


	18. Chapter 18

Tom won’t tell her where they are staying, exactly, except that it’s some place ‘Up North’.

Hermione knows he trusts her more than he does any other human being, probably even more than Bellatrix at this point, but nonetheless it saddens her that he still doesn’t show complete, unconditional faith in her.

Not that she can really blame him for his continued doubt, given how she treated her best friend.

Poor Harry must be devastated, and had there been any other possible option, she certainly wouldn’t have resorted to such extreme measures, but things being as desperate as they were – and still _are_, she doesn’t think she had much choice in the matter.

A week ago, Tom brought her to this stately mansion. It’s surrounded by moors and on a rare clear morning, one without fog, when she goes all the way up to the attic and looks out of the north window, she can see sheep grazing in fields in the faraway distance.

“This place belongs to my father’s family,” Tom tells her one afternoon. “Or rather, it used to.”

“Your father?” Hermione enquires, genuinely curious.

She has been waiting patiently, hoping for him to open up to her at last. Perhaps today, he finally will.

She walks over to the large armchair in the drawing room where he is sitting.

“What about your father?” she asks softly. She sits down on his lap and when he seems lost in thought and reluctant to respond, she runs a hand along his cheek and tries again. “Tom?”

“Well.” He sneers. “Let’s just say he wasn’t a very nice man.”

“Oh?” Hermione frowns. “You mean he passed away?”

“You could say that,” he replies in an icy tone. “And please, kindly spare me any heartfelt condolences.”

Hermione blinks as the chilling truth slowly dawns on her. “You- you were responsible for his death?”

“I believe the word you’re looking for, my dear, is ‘execution’.”

“Execution?” She swallows hard. “But why?”

“How many reasons would you like?” he asks with a wry smile. “Abandoning my mother even though she was pregnant, which indirectly landed me in that horrible Muggle orphanage when she died; how’s that for starters?”

“Or- Orphanage?” Hermione stammers. “You stayed in an orphanage?”

He nods. “Didn’t you know?”

She slowly shakes her head. The word ‘orphanage’ instantly conjures up the most horrifying images of bullies and thugs, and she wants to pull Tom closer and kiss him until she’s out of breath, because the idea of him growing up in such a bleak place fills her with sadness and sympathy.

In her mind, she can picture him quite clearly: an intelligent, precocious little boy fallen prey to the cruelty of other children, because it’s always the smart ones that get picked on; those who happen to be different.

She should know. She experienced something similar. Before she went to Hogwarts mostly, although even there, some students, Malfoy and his cronies in particular, were also very unpleasant towards her.

Is that what happened to Tom, she wonders? Was he bullied and abused? Is that why he hates Muggles as vehemently as he does? Is that what really lies at the root of his burning ambition to reign as a Dark Lord?

“So Harry Potter has made no mention of my less than blessed childhood?” Tom says, still sounding bitter. “How odd.”

“No, he never said a word about that.” She plucks a loose thread off his sweater. A green sweater that looks good on him, though it still surprises her to see him in attire that’s contemporary and almost Muggle. “Harry and Malfoy were mainly interested in learning about me,” she adds, “and in questioning me about what you and I got up to.”

“What we _got up to_, no less.” He lets out a soft chuckle. “I see.”

“No, nothing like that.” She laughs, relieved that his mood has brightened once again. “Oh honestly, Tom! Their only aim was to find out as much as possible about your plans. They never asked me much about our actual _relationship_.”

“Ah yes. My plans.” He brushes part of her fringe aside and tenderly kisses her forehead. “I meant to talk to you about those.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Word has reached me that Bella is missing.”

“Missing?”

He nods grimly. “Rodolphus, her husband, fears that she has been captured by Potter’s side, and meanwhile, Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy have disappeared as well, though I suspect those two were probably tipped off by that turncoat twofaced son of theirs, so we shan’t waste any precious time or resources trying to locate them.”

Hermione frowns. “And where does that leave you, us, this whole-?” She makes a vague gesture with her hands.

“Well, I believe we may have to rethink our strategy. In fact, I expect you might be able to help me with that.”

“_Help_ you?” she parrots, clearly astonished, be it also flattered, by the suggestion.

“Well.” He smiles. “I didn’t just pick you because you happen to have a pretty face, you realize. You also possess one of the brightest minds I know; aside from my own.”

Hermione takes a deep breath. She looks up to meet Tom’s beseeching gaze. He is a brilliant man, there’s no doubt about that, and she has fallen head over heels for him, there’s no point trying to deny that any longer either, but she still can’t turn a blind eye to what he’s about to do, the great evils he intends to unleash, should he win this war.

At the back of her mind, a plan of her own starts to form.

What if she can somehow change his mind, convince him to give up this quest, these ardent ambitions that will lead to nothing but fear and terror and destruction?

She decides to stall for time, hoping to gain a few days to work out a scheme.

Perhaps, if…

“But there’s so much I have yet to learn and experience,” she says. “Do you suppose you could teach me?”

He raises a quizzical eyebrow. “Teach you what?”

“Dark Magic,” she answers in a whisper.

He hesitates for a moment and takes her hands in his. “Are you quite certain that’s what you want? You must realize that once you start with Dark Magic, there will be no more turning back. Once you embrace the darkness, it envelopes you. It’s not like one of those Muggle contraptions one can simply switch on and off.”

“I know,” Hermione says softly. “I can handle that.” She bites her lip, and suddenly thinks she can feel something… an odd sensation in her head, like a buzz or a tingle or-

_Legilimency_

She remembers reading about that no so long ago in either his library or in Harry’s.

She hasn’t the skill to throw it off, but she can do what she hopes to be the next best thing and focus on one word and one world solely until it’s the only thing left in her mind.

_“Yes.”_

“Very well, my dearest.” Tom smiles. “I’d be happy to.”

Hermione smiles back. She leans closer and kisses him before he feels the urge to invade her mind again. She mentally crosses her fingers and hopes she truly is as brilliant as Tom considers her to be.


	19. Chapter 19

Tom walks into the room and unbuttons his shirt

He notices that in the large four-poster bed, Hermione is already sound asleep, while from on top of the duvet, her cat regards him suspiciously.

”You don't like me much, do you, Crookshanks?” Tom mutters under his breath, wondering if, perhaps, he should have given the girl a snake instead. Still, the ginger fur ball means the world to her, so he lets the fickle animal be.

At times like this, Tom can’t help but wonder, just for a moment, whether this is what domestic bliss - assuming such a thing even exists, feels like.

A quiet, normal life with someone who cares about him.

For Hermione does. Of that, he is certain.

Unlike Bellatrix’ doting, Hermione’s devotion to him appears to have very little, if anything, to do with his power, his ambition or his ability to manipulate and move people around as one would the pawns of a chess game.

The more time he spends with her, the more he’s tempted to trade in everything he’s working so hard for; exchange it for a peaceful life, one that involves just her and him and that blasted cat.

Except, of course, he knows full well that he is destined for far greater things, and that the future he has planned leaves little room for peace and normalcy; at least not before he has finally reached his goals.

He casts another brief glance at the young woman sleeping in his bed.

Hermione has turned out to be a bright student, just as he expected she would, and she took to the Dark Arts like a fish to water.

Still, he doesn't allow her to kill anything more sentient than thistles. He wouldn't wish to take this too far.

When she asks him why he’s purposely holding her back, he insists that it has to do with balance and the dangers of sending too much traceable magic out into the world, though honestly, in his heart of hearts, his reasons for taking these precautions are far more personal.

Watching Hermione immerse herself in all those tricky, dangerous spells, he can’t help but be reminded of Bellatrix—

Bellatrix, who may be an exceptional lieutenant with a ferocious appetite for destruction to match her fierce loyalty, but once you look past the surface, she's also a shell of a woman, robbed of sanity and sense of perspective, and Tom's convinced it took more than Azkaban to accomplish that.

Playing with the darkness for so long must have left her shrouded in shadows.

He'd hate if something similar were to happen to Hermione. She’s too valuable to him, on many different levels, and to his dismay, the most important reasons have less and less to do with her ability to be an asset to him in this war.

He shakes his head, willing an end to his disturbing musings, and he climbs into bed next to her.

As if she can sense his presence, even in her sleep, she scoots closer.

He wraps an arm around her and whispers, "Nox."

In the darkness, he can hear Crookshanks purr softly.

Tom’s last thought before he drifts off, with the only woman he ever truly cared for in his arms, is that normalcy is almost tempting.

But unfortunately not quite tempting enough for him to forsake his destiny.


	20. Chapter 20

Once again, Hermione wakes up to find Tom not lying next to her, but this time, to her immense relief, he hasn’t gone very far.

She sees him sitting by the window, gazing out over the moors, and she’s almost surprised at how young he looks and how innocent still.

She supposes it must be true when people say that appearances can be dangerously misleading.

Sometimes, and such more and more lately, she finds it difficult to remember who he actually is.

She often forgets the ugliness that lies hidden behind that handsome face, or what this man is capable of, or the lengths he’d go to without as much as a millisecond’s hesitation, let alone a backwards glance, to accomplish whatever he sets out to do.

He still treats the future, the whole concept of destiny, as if it’s carved in stone, as if nothing has changed, not even now because nothing ever can.

Hermione, for her part, understands something he appears unwilling or incapable to comprehend. She may forget about his true nature more frequently than is wise. However, her love for him has not blinded her completely.

The picture he paints of an ideal future chills her to the bone, and from her point of view, the execution of his plans are bound to lead to the destruction of everything he’s so determined to preserve.

A few generations farther down the line, she’s convinced that everything will fall to pieces; if it doesn’t happen even sooner than she predicts, given the ferocity of this war.

Things will certainly turn tragic if the fighting ever spills over into the Muggle world.

In Britain alone, Tom’s followers will be outnumbered by thousands - or even millions; leaving the Death Eaters’ chances of winning this battle extremely slim; for wizards may have magic, powerful magic, at their disposal, but Muggles are capable of defending themselves too. They have weapons, after all, some of which are highly advanced and decidedly more lethal than the two old pistols still concealed at the bottom of Hermione’s trunk.

She wonders whether Tom ever thinks of that, if he ever considers himself as even remotely vulnerable, or if he actually believes he’s some kind of god.

Truthfully, Hermione isn’t all that certain that he’s even a Pureblood himself. He seems to be very familiar with many Muggle customs, and he drinks Earl Grey tea, just like her gran used to.

Of course, she realizes, he could have picked up all those habits at that orphanage he went to as well.

She would like to ask him and the words are often on the tip of her tongue, but she never utters them in the end, since she always decides that would be rude and inappropriate. Besides, such questions might trigger unpleasant memories and upset him greatly, especially if it was his father who was a Muggle.

“Awake, are you?” he asks, not tearing his gaze away from whatever it’s focused on outside.

“Yes,” she says, and adds, “a Knut for your thoughts, Tom?”

“Guess,” he replies with an enigmatic smile.

She shakes her head and gets out of bed, wrapping her robe around her. The wooden floorboards creak slightly under her feet as she slowly walks towards him.

“Well, I don’t know,” she says, sitting down on his lap. “Unlike some people I could mention, I haven’t yet mastered the art of reading minds.”

Tom smirks. “You’re no fun, Granger.”

“Is that so?” she enquires mischievously. She runs her hands through his hair and kisses him. “I must say; that’s a rather different tune from the one you sang last night.”

He grins. “Cheeky.” They kiss again, and he’s about to suggest going back to bed, when suddenly, without warning, a house-elf barges into the room.

“T-t-terribly sorry, My Lord,” the creature begins hesitantly, looking both guilty and bashful. “But- downstairs, urgent Firecall arrived moments ago.”

“Go on,” Tom says.

“Mister Lestrange. His wife. Found dead. He fears, murdered. Sorry, My Lord.”

Tom blinks. “Thank you for letting me know,“ he says sternly.

“You’re dismissed, Carvy,” Hermione adds in a gentler tone, and instantly, the creature scurries out, grateful for the chance of a quick retreat.

Hermione looks back at Tom, and studies him carefully. His expression is hard and cold. His fingers are clenched into fists.

“I’ll kill him, Hermione,” Tom hisses. “Harry Potter is a dead man.”

Hermione cups his face and searches his eyes for answers. All she can see in their reflection is hateful determination. He means every word.

Whatever he’s about to say next, she muffles it with a kiss. Behind his back, she takes his wand from the windowsill, where he conveniently put it earlier.

“I’m so very sorry, my love,” she whispers against his lips.

With one swift move, she shifts back, aims the wand and shouts,

”Stupefy!”


	21. Chapter 21

Tom is lying there, motionless, dead to the world and totally powerless to react to everything that has happened.

Hermione half-carried, half-dragged him to bed earlier and tucked him in carefully.

It weighs heavily on her heart and her conscience that she had to go to such extremes, but she couldn’t stand idly by and allow him to hurt Harry.

She doesn't want him to hurt anyone anymore.

This has to stop now.

Gingerly, she makes her way downstairs and heads into the dining room.

The house-elf, who’s still in the process of setting the table, appears anxious, and Hermione decides he probably has his reasons.

She highly doubts that Tom would hurt the creature, and if so, certainly not in her presence, but she’s also aware that some wizards aren’t exactly known for treating their elves terribly well.

She thinks she remembers some unpleasant incident involving Lucius Malfoy and Harry too, and an elf called Knobby or Dobby or something that sounded like that anyway.

Of course, that is, assuming that confrontation even happened, and provided the vivid memory isn’t something Tom, for some reason or another, wanted her to see.

“Hi- his Lordship not coming?” the creature in front of her stammers awkwardly, and gives her a questioning glance.

Hermione smiles. “He’s resting and will be skipping breakfast today. No need to set a plate for him, Carvy.”

The elf wrings his gangly hands nervously. “Sorry for… causing that… upset earlier. Carvy never indented to-”

“That’s quite all right,” Hermione says kindly. “You were only the messenger, after all. What happened with Mrs. Lestrange isn’t something you could have helped or are even remotely responsible for.”

The elf shakes his head and suddenly looks extremely grateful. He’s clearly not used to people being polite to him.

For what feels like an age, he remains standing there, as if he’s waiting for new instructions and all of a sudden, something occurs to Hermione; something she overheard Malfoy mention to Harry many weeks ago:

The address of a hide-away and the name of probably the only person who might still be able to help her now.

“Carvy,” she says, her mind quickly made up, “would you happen to have a map handy?”

“Map?” he echoes enthusiastically. “Her Ladyship wishes to go somewhere.”

Hermione nods determinedly.

“Maybe Carvy knows where place is? Carvy travelled a lot before he came here. Often accompanied Mister Malfoy on missions also.”

“Malfoy?” Hermione frowns. “You mean _Lucius_, I suppose, not Draco?”

The elf nods. “Yes, the elder Malfoy.” He seems a little bit unsettled by the question, so Hermione decides not to press the issue, but to get straight to the point instead.

“I need to get to Spinner’s End,” she states, “as soon as possible. Are you familiar with its location?”

Carvy nods. “I can Apparate Her Ladyship,” he says.

“I’d be most grateful if you would.”

The elf offers his thin arm. Hermione takes hold of it and inhales sharply, hoping with every beat of her heart that her instincts aren’t failing her this time.

“Ready?” the elf asks.

“Yes,” Hermione says, and with a soft pop, they are gone.


	22. Chapter 22

Slightly bewildered, Hermione surveys her surroundings.

She never would have expected someone of his stature to live in a house as shabby and derelict as the one she’s currently standing in front of. With a weary sigh, she decides that the times must be even more desperate than she imagined.

She takes a deep breath and unable to locate a bell, she resolutely knocks at the heavy, wooden door—

Once

Twice

Three times

Finally, it opens with a loud, almost ominous creak, and the tall, gangly figure of Severus Snape appears in the doorway.

The man looks his visitors, the young woman and the house-elf, up and down in what’s either irritation or astonishment, or possibly even a mixture of both; A Slytherin to the core, the man’s expressions have always been extremely difficult to read.

"Miss…_Granger_?" he finally says, at last recognizing his former student.

She nods. “Professor.”

He raises a quizzical eyebrow. “What brings you here?”

Hermione bites her lip. She’s well aware that she’s older now, and wiser, and thanks to Tom’s expert teachings, a lot more powerful than she used to be as well, and yet, even today, the stern tone of the Potion Master’s voice still manages to fill her with sheer trepidation.

“Perhaps we could continue this conversation inside?” she suggests carefully.

“Inside?” Snape frowns. “Before I invite you into my home, Miss Granger, perhaps you should first inform me what it is you hope to accomplish by coming to see me? After all, if the word on the street is to be believed, your allegiances in this war are ambiguous at best.”

Hermione smirks. “No offense, Sir,” she retorts pointedly, “but if Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy are telling the truth, so are yours.”

Snape almost smiles, then, though it ends up looking more like a grimace.

He gestures Hermione and Carvy to enter.

In the small but unexpectedly cozy living room, Hermione takes a seat and gets straight to the point.

“I was hoping you might be able and willing to help me, Sir,” she says.

“Help _you_? Or is it in fact the Dark Lord who demands my assistance?”

Although the directness of his question surprises her greatly, Hermione stands her ground. “Me,” she replies, “as well as the whole wizarding world at the same time.”

Snape sneers. “Dare I even venture to ask what His Lordship has put you up to this time?”

Hermione shakes her head. “He has _nothing_ to do with this,” she says firmly, struggling not to lose her temper and subsequently ruin everything. “I came here on my own accord.”

“Did you indeed?” He crosses his arms expectantly "Go on."

“Well, as things stand, unless I undertake something very soon, I’m about to be put in a position where-“ she takes a deep breath – “I may have to choose between saving the man I love and the friends I grew up with, and frankly, that’s not something I imagine myself capable of.”

Snape’s eyes widen in genuine befuddlement. “You _love_ him?” he asks. “Even knowing who and what he is, you still feel that way about…. Tom Riddle?”

“Yes,” Hermione replies simply, and adds, “And that’s not something I intend to ask anyone’s understanding, let alone beg their forgiveness for, either.”

“I see.”

Before she ends up losing her nerve, Hermione blurts out, “I Stupefied Tom.” And she hopes with all her heart that she’s not divulging this information to the wrong person, and that the professor really is on Harry’s side. She inhales sharply and soldiers on, “I’m trying to… change his mind, and to make him abandon this plans, so that all this unnecessary bloodshed will finally stop…“

The room is silent for a few loaded moments, until Snape remarks, “I don’t mean to be cynical or unpleasant, Miss Granger, but are you quite certain you’re not in over your head here? Your… _paramour_ is a very powerful Dark wizard, whereas you are a Muggleborn witch who hasn’t even completed her schooling yet.”

Hermione doesn’t dignify that statement with a verbal response. Instead, she mutters something under her breath and within seconds, a vase flies across the room. It misses Snape’s head by mere millimetres before shattering against the wall behind him.

The man looks almost amused. “It would appear I may have underestimated your skill, Miss Granger,” he says dryly. “So tell me, what is it you require?”

“Well, I need to see Harry, or anyone else from his side who’d be willing to keep an open mind and hear me out. What I would like is to set up a meeting somewhere, on neutral ground.”

Snape frowns, considering the suggestion for a few moments. “Very well,” he says at last. “How do I contact you when it’s all arranged?”

“You don’t, Sir,” Hermione says. “Carvy-“ she gestures towards the elf sitting next to her – “will return the day after tomorrow to check with you for news.”

Snape raises an eyebrow at that. Hermione can’t decide whether he’s impressed or merely mocking her. His answer, however, gives her a reason to hope.

“Very well, Miss Granger. I’ll see what I can do.”


	23. Chapter 23

Hermione sits down on the bed and slowly and gently runs her fingers through Tom’s hair.

He’s still unconscious, and will remain so for as long as she doesn’t break the spell.

Truthfully, she’s more than merely a little frightened to take that necessary next step, because she’s fully aware that once she does, everything will change, and there will be no more turning back, no second try – ever.

She sighs deeply as a terrible thought takes hold of her, one that instantly makes her blood run cold.

What if Tom ends up hating her for this? What if he thinks she betrayed him, which technically, is of course exactly what she’s about to do, be it with only the best of intentions?

But then, she reasons, how could he hate what he won’t even remember; and she does know precisely what she’s doing, doesn’t she?

‘Yes,’ she tells herself. She has thought this through more than once, regarded it from every angle she could imagine, and she always reached the exact same conclusion at the end.

This is her only option and their only chance.

This way, everybody wins.

"I'm terribly sorry, Tom," she whispers, hoping that somehow, he's still able to hear her, "but I'm doing this for our future, and so that the wizarding world will be a safe place once again. All those innocents don’t need to be punished for whatever loneliness or abuse you suffered; for what was done to you by others who are long gone now. And I promise you, Tom, -“ she leans down and kisses his cheek – “you’ll never be lonely or unloved again. You’ll have me. You’ll _always_ have me.”

She reaches for the small bottle on the nightstand. Carefully, she uncorks it and slips it between his lips.

Just one drop on the purple potion; that’s all it will take.

He swallows it automatically.

Hermione mutters the ancient spell she has memorized, concentrating with all her might on all she wants to accomplish and on how much he has come to mean to her.

Mere seconds later, Tom is sleeping peacefully, and she trusts he won’t be waking up again any time soon.

For a period of thirteen months he will sleep, and he will dream-

Vivid, realistic dreams of things that never happened but should have, to erase and replace the bitterness and pain, and when he finally wakes up, the two of them can start over.

A clean slate.

Provided Hermione has sorted out everything else by then; the war, his followers, and Harry—

Harry might just turn out to be the hardest of them all to convince.

“I love you,” she whispers to the sleeping man on the bed, “and I really hope you won’t hold this against me.”

She lingers for a moment, and reminds herself that she _can_ do this, that she _must_.

She takes a deep, fortifying breath and she moves to stand.

The time has come.


	24. Chapter 24

The three men in front of her regard her with glances of vague amusement and grave doubt, if not full-blown distrust, just as she expected they would.

After all, in all likelihood, to them, she’s merely that Mudblood their Lord and Master unexpectedly took under his wing years ago. Or worse, they consider her as his little plaything, or possibly even his personal whore, which, frankly, would be a terrible insult to the both of them.

Hermione is certain that when Tom took her from that Chamber (not to put too fine a point on it: _kidnapped_ her) when she was only twelve, love was just about the last thing on his mind, and yet she never felt anything less than very precious to him; not even back in those days when it were mostly false and fabricated memories and confusing dreams that bound her to him, heart, body and soul. She has always sensed a kind of affection and respect on his part, a gentleness one generally wouldn’t associate with someone like him, and it definitely existed beyond the realm of her imagination.

But as she stands here now, facing Antonin Dolohov, Rodolphus Lestrange and this other man whose name she keeps forgetting (he’s Russian, she thinks) such are hardly sentiments she can express; assuming the trio would even be interested or plain willing to listen.

It briefly crosses her mind that, perhaps, Professor Snape was right, that she is in too deep and that the lies and bluff will catch up with her much sooner than anticipated.

She is, after all, a Gryffindor and not a Slytherin, but still she has to win their trust only to shatter it later.

She has to hand them over to the other side, and more of them will be unwittingly sent down the same path; many, many more, one after the other, if this conflict is to be settled under strict damage control.

It’s all in her hands, and hers alone, which is a daunting prospect; but fiercely determined, she silently reminds herself of the gruesome alternative, of the many reasons why she has no choice but to act this way.

Hermione is well aware too, that under no circumstances whatsoever should she show any signs of insecurity, let alone fear.

Furthermore, she has to keep her mind focused as much as possible on the task ahead, if only on the off chance that one of those three men might be a Legilimens too; even though, honestly, she doubts it. Tom would have mentioned that to her at some point, otherwise – wouldn’t he?

He’s been a lot more forthcoming with his information recently; treating her like a partner, almost, though she’s not naïve enough to presume he’ll ever consider her his equal.

“Where is the Dark Lord?” Dolohov suddenly enquires, his sharp, suspicious voice cutting through Hermione’s musings.

Hoping she appears braver than she feels, for her heart is hammering in her throat and her pulse must be racing a hundred miles a minute, Hermione looks the man straight in the eye. In a curt, almost business-like fashion, she replies, “His Lordship is not to be disturbed right now. He’s in the middle of investigating the circumstances surrounding Mrs. Lestrange’s death.”

“Not to speak badly of His Lordship, but aren’t those obvious?” Rodolphus remarks bitterly. “Treachery and incompetence are what killed her, and if I were a betting man, I’d even put my money on the former rather than the latter. Barely anyone is to be trusted these days. I wouldn’t be one bit surprised to learn it was one of our own who finished my Bella off.”

Soon, the three prominent Death Eaters are talking animatedly amongst themselves, speculating about who the traitor might be and throwing accusations in all directions (unsurprisingly, Snape’s name is mentioned more than once), and Hermione lets out a relieved breath.

Her plan worked. Her role in all this is no longer the main focus of their attention; only a need for payback is, along with their misguided ideas of justice.

She nods to herself; _Now or never._

“Gentlemen,” she kindly interrupts them and before they get the chance to ask any more questions, let alone mistrust her again, she briefs them about their new mission, which, to Rodolphus’ obvious delight, involves a raid on a safe house in Nottingham Forest; one allegedly run by Severus Snape.

She has gained their full attention now, set as they are on revenge. And when they finally leave, almost two hours later, they do so in high spirits, and looking forward to Friday when a score will be finally settled.

Only she knows it won’t be the one they so ardently hope for.

Hermione accompanies them into the hallway and to the front door. They’re still talking excitedly about their grand schemes and the victory that’s so close they can almost taste it.

Does Tom know his followers are such bloodthirsty monsters, she can’t help but wonder, or was he the one who made them so, dragged them into his plans to damn the world that once rejected him?

She firmly closes the door behind them, leans back against it and sinks down to the floor, her hands shaking. She props her knees up to her chest, she swallows hard, and she _breathes—_

_Slowly. In and out and out and in._

The first difficult step out of three has been accomplished.

So far, so good.

  


  


	25. Chapter 25

Little Hangleton Cemetery is hardly what she'd call neutral ground, and truly, the precise location of the designated meeting place, right next to Tom Riddle Senior’s tombstone, can’t be regarded as anything but someone’s messed up interpretation of poetic justice. ‘Who’d have thought that Harry would be so petty about it all?’ Hermione wonders sadly.

She wraps her thick cloak more tightly around her while she has to remind herself that she’s not afraid.

After all, she hasn’t any reason to be. Harry would never harm her. He’s far too noble for that, and besides, Tom taught her how to defend herself – _just in case_, didn’t he?

She notices a figure stepping out of the shadows. She blinks in astonishment, but quickly regains her composure.

It’s not Harry Potter but Draco Malfoy who’s standing in front of her, and why is she even surprised?

“Granger,” the young man says in a curt, formal manner, “I believe you have something for me.”

“Where is Harry?” she asks him.

“Back at headquarters,” he replies vaguely.

“So, you’re his errand boy now, are you, Malfoy?” Hermione says mockingly before she can even stop herself.

It’s not that she’s angry with _him_, per se. Malfoy was nothing but a stupid, antagonistic bully when they were still at Hogwarts; loudmouthed and mean-spirited but relatively harmless in the grand scheme of things, and obviously, he has seen the error of his ways since then, because he’s helping Harry presently, for whatever reason, but still—

Harry, who’s supposed to be her best friend, assured Professor Snape that he’d be here personally tonight, but he’s not. Instead, he sent Malfoy, and Hermione can’t help but be bitterly disappointed, even though, deep in her heart, she also understands.

“Well,” Malfoy replies snidely, “I must admit I find your question highly amusing, coming from a Muggleborn who’s currently shacked up with the Dark Lord. I hope you can appreciate the irony of your little liaison, Granger, because certain people back home certainly can’t.”

“I keep my own counsel, Malfoy,” Hermione snaps back. “I’m not required to answer, let alone justify myself to you; or to any of them, for that matter.”

“Likewise, Granger,” Malfoy says, not missing a beat. He crosses his arms. “So, do you have it in your possession, this… item you promised to bring? Your token of good faith, as it were?”

She nods slowly. “I was hoping to give it to Harry, though.”

“Yes, well, I’m afraid he couldn’t make it.”

“Why?” She has to ask.

“If you absolutely must know, he didn’t presume it safe.”

“_Safe_?! B-bu- but I’d never _ever_ hurt Harry,” Hermione splutters indignantly. “My whole reason for doing this, setting all this up, it’s all because of-“

“Allow me to rephrase that,” Malfoy says dryly, cutting her off. “Potter didn’t presume it safe for _you_. “

“What?” Her eyes widen. “You can’t be serious?”

“Trust me, I’m deadly serious, Granger. Harry’s had enough of all the lies, all the deceit, and he didn’t want to be tempted into hexing you into oblivion the very minute he set eyes on you.”

Hermione gulps. This sounds nothing at all like the Harry she knows; but then, it would be odd for her to be the only one who has changed, wouldn’t it?

“Now,” Malfoy continues, “could we please get down to business, before he gets worried and sends some Aurors our way?”

“Aurors?”

“That’s right. We’ve taken enough foolish risks where you’re concerned, Granger. We aren’t willing to subject ourselves to any more.” He holds out a hand. “So, the item, if you please?”

Hermione nods grimly. This isn’t going at all the way she expected it to, and certainly not remotely how she planned it. She had hoped for a chance to talk to Harry; to apologize, to explain, to reassure him that she hasn’t betrayed him, that she never could, never _will_, and that she’s doing all this for his benefit as well.

She reaches into her robe pocket and takes out the two pieces. She places them in Malfoy’s hand.

“Pleasure doing business with you, Granger,” he says, and looks almost smug enough to slap. “The Auror team will be in Nottingham as you requested.”

“Very well,” Hermione says. “Thank you. Goodbye, Malfoy, and tell Harry-“

He raises a questioning eyebrow.

“Tell him I’m terribly sorry about all this,” she whispers, fighting back tears, and before Malfoy gets the chance to say anything else, she disappears with a pop.

Draco takes a deep breath, and stares down at the broken wand in his hand. He resolves to show it to Harry first, and then he’ll burn it and bury whatever remains in sacred ground, six feet under.


	26. Chapter 26

"That was by no means a _bad_ catch, was it, Potter?" Draco Malfoy's distinctive drawl is only one among the many sounds heard in the busy clearing. "Lestrange, Dolohov, Mulciber..."

"No, I suppose not." Harry wipes some mud and wayward leaves off his robes. "And at least Hermione didn't deceive us this time around either," he adds grimly.

"Potter, I really don’t think—"

"Make sure to leave no traces, you lot!" Moody yells in the background. "Not a single one! It has to look like they vanished into thin air, not like someone got to them. It wouldn't do to give the game away, lads. Not this far down the line. And oi, is that a broken wand I see over there? What's it still lying around for, Longbottom?"

"You really shouldn't be so hard on her, Potter," Draco says softly, paying little or no attention to the ruckus all around them.

"Shouldn't I?" Harry snaps back. "It's been one bloody liar after another lately. Even Dumbledore twisted the truth to suit his own agenda, forced my hand like I was nothing but a pawn, and of course, I never had a bloody clue or suspected a thing while everyone around me lied and cheated, Draco."

That last statement earns him a venomous glare. "_Everyone_, Potter?"

"I-I didn't mean you."

"Hm." Draco spells a scorched spot of grass back to its original state. "Besides, it’s not completely her fault."

"Isn't it?" Harry clenches his fists in anger, although he's fast running out of steam, not knowing how to judge or evaluate the night's proceedings, or how to even begin to determine Hermione's role in all this. Whose side is she on, anyhow, or is she desperately avoiding choosing a side at all and if so, how could that ever work?

"She loves him," Draco says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world and Harry’s the worst kind of idiot for not realizing it himself. "People have been known to do the strangest things for love. They lie to their friends, for instance, or they become spies for the opposing side in a dangerous war or worse yet, they give a family of notorious Death Eaters a shot at redemption. Love clouds the brain, messes with the mind and makes one completely blind to reason, don't you know?"

Harry rolls his eyes, but chooses not to comment.

"Come on," Draco continues. "We have a stack of paperwork to catch up on, countless reports to file, and tomorrow we need to get in touch with Severus to hear when and where we can expect to capture the next batch of Death Eater scum. Nott is still at large, for one thing, and that's definitely not something to rejoice over."

"What about Hermione? And what about… _him_?"

"If her plan works, we needn't worry about him any longer, do we? I suggest we give it three months before we declare peace and claim victory."

"And if Hermione’s plan doesn't work?"

Draco smirks. "Then I suppose we can safely say that the books are mistaken.”

Harry's expression is one of complete confusion. "Sorry?”

"That love _doesn't_ conquer all."

Harry shakes his head, suddenly amused, or at least notably less glum than he was a few moments previous. "Do I even want to know what mushy crap you’ve been reading lately, Draco?”

"Oh do shut up, Potter."

Their voices trail off, and Hermione moves to stand from where she was hunched down, hidden behind some shrubbery.

From her vantage point, she witnessed it all: the way the unsuspecting and decidedly unprepared Death Eaters were surprised, overpowered and subsequently captured, the mildly confused but mostly triumphant expression on Harry's face and finally, the way sheer relief relaxed his features as soon as he realized that he hadn’t been deceived—

Not this time.

She takes a deep breath and slowly counts to ten.

As she leaves for home, she’s fully reassured in the knowledge that Harry will probably be all right, and hopefully one day he’ll find it in his heart to forgive her too, even if she won’t be around to know either way.

Hermione is well aware that this was most likely the last time she ever caught a glimpse of him. Once this is all over, she knows she can’t ever return.


	27. Chapter 27

Days, weeks and months crawl by at a teasing and torturously slow pace and sometimes Hermione has to wonder why she even bothers to get up in the morning, knowing that she’ll only be confronted with an overwhelming loneliness that gnaws at her heart and tears at her soul.

She misses her friends dearly, even more now than she did when she believed them all to be dead, and the realization carries with it a bitter sense of irony, which, she supposes, mirrors the gist of her present and future existence rather fittingly.

Tom she misses dreadfully too, even though he's only upstairs, fast asleep and as yet blissfully unaware of anything that’s been happening or the great changes that await him.

Once a day, and sometimes more, she goes up to their room. It’s technically _his_ room now, since she's moved into the guestroom to put some much-needed distance between them.

Every time she visits, she sits in the chair next to the bed while she holds his hand and talks to him as he continues to sleep.

She tells him over and over again that she loves him, and that she's sorry – so very, _very_ sorry about all this.

Never before has Hermione experienced such strong a sense of regret, even though she’s still convinced she's doing the right thing—

_She is, isn't she?_

Some days, everything is a blur and nothing seems clear any longer.

On certain other days, though, and more often lately, someone stops by to visit her.

The man has become a friend of sorts, be it an unlikely one, and somehow, he manages to snap her out of the gloom and back to the present, every single time.

Hermione doesn't know how Professor Snape – calling him ‘Severus’ just doesn’t feel right, so she never does, despite his vehement insistence to the contrary – discovered her present location, nor does she care to ask, mostly because it’s hardly relevant.

Something tells her that she can trust him, implicitly, not to give away or publicize her darkest of secrets.

It does surprise her, however, that he seems uncharacteristically concerned about her, not that she doubts that he has cause to be.

She has all but completely lost her appetite.

She barely sleeps.

All she does is worry and wait—

_So much endless, merciless waiting._

Professor Snape tells her he knows a thing or two about making sacrifices, and how bitterly it can backfire when you end up caring too deeply and intensely about someone.

She knows he's right, but she’s also well aware that she can't be like him, detached and dismissive. It’s in her nature to care and nurture.

Besides, it would be too late to even try.

She cannot turn back the clock and undo how her heart has already been stolen, or how she can no longer envision a life without Tom.

It’s all or nothing; she won’t settle for anything in between.

One misty Monday morning, she gingerly crawls out of bed, picks up the copy of the Prophet the Owl Post delivered and she sees it, at last, splattered all over the front page.

Gigantic bold lettering announces the end of the war, and underneath it...

A picture.

Harry looks exhausted and older than his barely eighteen years. Malfoy stands next to him, one hand on Harry’s shoulder and they’re both smiling, relief obvious on their faces.

Finally, it’s over

Peace has returned to the Wizarding World, and the Dark Lord is missing, presumed dead by the hand of one of his own followers.

And in the midst of the euphoria no one, not even Rita Skeeter, seems to consider how little sense that makes, taking into account a certain prophecy that definitely happened.

Hermione summons Carvy and asks for a pot of strong coffee and cinnamon biscuits if there are any left.

New arrangements will need to be made, for under no circumstances will they be able to remain in Britain. They can’t live anywhere where people might recognize and subsequently persecute him.

Thankfully, he has connections and assets Professor Snape knows about and these will make things much easier.

Hermione takes a deep breath and sits down at the desk. She takes a piece of parchment and begins to write.

The clock is ticking, but time isn’t moving nearly fast enough.

Seven months, three hours, fifteen minutes until Tom will finally awaken again.


	28. Chapter 28

It’s a daunting prospect to leave all this behind forever; the wizarding world, this magical place she always knew existed, even when she was just a small Muggle girl like so many others, be it also extremely intuitive and unusually sensible and precocious for her age.

It will be difficult to have to take that giant leap backwards and to live an ordinary, mundane life once again, but it’s their one and only chance, assuming he won’t remember his actual past, provided her plan has worked and the lies and deceit won’t end up standing like an invisible wall between them for the rest of their lives, because should such turn out to be the case, this will mark the end and not the beginning and all her efforts will have been in vain.

But, she reminds herself sternly, she has to avoid thinking like that, because worst case scenarios never help matters, and even Professor Snape (who’s an odd source of optimism if ever she’s come across one) tells her she’s over-analyzing and worrying too much.

And it’s ridiculous to think that she really doesn’t function very well without Tom, since she was fine before, always self-reliant and fiercely independent.

But still, now—

Professor Snape shows her the deed to a land house in Italy. It’s situated right in the middle of nowhere, and he assures her there are no magical folks around for miles, and certainly no British people either, no one who may have heard of Hogwarts or caught wind of some weird underground war that never made the Muggle news, although it left its traces regardless, in shapes of crop circles and an overabundance of insects and the strange overnight flooding of a Cornish village that no scientist was able to explain.

She doesn’t know the place, and she can’t read the official document without a translation spell, and when she signs her name, what she down puts is:

_Hermione Jane Prevell._

Let them think they’re married, she decides. Let them think anything they prefer, and if anyone ever goes looking, some bounty hunter who doesn’t believe that the Dark Lord has truly perished, he or she will no doubt be looking for Lord Voldemort, or Tom Riddle, not Mister and Mrs. Prevell.

“Very well, Miss Granger,” Professor Snape says, but quickly corrects himself. “Excuse me. I do, of course, mean Mrs. Prevell,” he adds with a good-natured smirk.

He hands her the Portkey that will take her and Tom straight to the heart of Tuscany, as soon as the time is right.

“Grazie,” she says with a small smile, deciding she might as well get some practice in.

“I believe this is where we part our ways,” Professor Snape says. “I trust you know how to contact me, in the unlikely event that this should ever prove necessary?”

Hermione nods.

“You do realize you have a… _friend_—“ the word sounds almost foreign on his tongue – “ in the wizarding world still?”

“Yes, Sir. Thank you.”

He slings his cloak around his shoulders and holds out his hand for her to shake.

For a moment, she hesitates. “Professor?”

“Yes?”

“You will—“ she takes a deep breath. “You will look after Harry, won’t you?”

He arches an eyebrow.

“I mean, make certain he’s all right?”

Professor Snape gives a curt nod. “Yes, I’ll keep an eye on him, though I doubt such will be necessary.”

Hermione frowns.

“Draco Malfoy is doing a rather adequate job of looking after Mister Potter, Miss Granger,” he explains dryly and Hermione can’t help but chuckle because in some twisted way, all this is rather funny, or it would be if it weren’t for the war and the bitter betrayal and all those other unfortunate twists of fate that have landed them in this predicament here and now.

Hermione shakes her former teacher’s hand.

“Take care,” he says and he gives her a genuine smile, the kind she never expected to see appear on his face.

“Yes,” she replies softly. “You too.”

A slow nod of his head, a whispered incantation and he’s gone, and Hermione realizes she’ll probably miss him the most of all.

  


  


	29. Chapter 29

Hermione sits on the edge of his bed and anxiously waits as the moment of truth approaches rapidly. Her heart is filled with both hope and trepidation while she wonders what will happen next.

Slowly, Tom opens his eyes, and he blinks. Once, twice, three times, and then he smiles at her.

She smiles back hesitantly; almost scared to find out whether her plan has worked. She equally dreads the first words he’ll speak, but she struggles to remain optimistic and reassures herself that he doesn’t seem at all angry or even visibly confused.

Actually, never before have his features looked so relaxed or peaceful to her as they do at this very moment.

“Sleep well, Tom?” she whispers, and she instantly realizes it’s a daft question to ask at a time like this. Its irony is nearly amusing in an off-colour sort of sense, but she can’t bear this silence any longer. It hangs over them, heavy, expectant and thick, and she has to break it before it chokes her.

“Yes,” he replies. “I feel like I’ve slept a hundred years.”

He glances around the room briefly. It’s an exact replica of the one at their previous residence. She made sure of that. Just in case—

She can only hope that all those precautions she took will turn out to be sufficient.

“Breakfast is served,” she says softly. “That is, if you’re hungry.”

“Famished,” he says and he still shows no signs of being anything other than content.

The rest of day is spent in an almost tranquil fashion, like the others were before all this began. Minus the threat of war, of course, and the strategies he concocted and the Dark Magic he taught her in between.

There will be no more of that in their lives. As far as he knows, they’re ordinary people; Muggles, though that’s a word he has long forgotten the meaning or even the existence of.

While he relaxes and enjoys a leisurely day of reading and strolling through the orchard as if he’s already done so a thousand times before, Hermione remains on edge and more than a little nervous.

She keeps waiting for an omen, some kind of sign that her new life is about to shatter.

Evening falls, and thus far, nothing out of the ordinary has happened; nothing to give her any cause for concern.

Though he does seem slightly unhinged sometimes and at dinner, he finally asks her whether he’s been ill or injured because he feels like he’s missing this huge chunk of time.

She forces a smile and she tells him exactly what Professor Snape advised her to.

They were both involved in a car crash and he sustained a head injury; nothing life-threatening, but it was still serious enough to leave him disoriented and confused, if only for a little while, until he’s fully recovered.

He only nods at that, and Hermione has to wonder whether he even knew the meaning of the word ‘car’ before all this, but she decides he must have done, either from the orphanage or because much as he loathed them, Muggles always fascinated him too. Back in the days when he was still a Dark Lord, he used to say it was a case of ‘know thy enemy’, but she never truly believed that.

Night time comes, the hour to retire, and things turn bizarre and awkward, just for a moment, just as she expected them to.

“Come here,” he whispers.

She climbs into bed next to him and she’s overcome with a strong sense of remorse, for suddenly everything feels like trickery and treachery and just plain wrong.

But then she moves into his arms, and instantly, it’s the most natural thing in the world.

When he makes love to her for the first time in far too long, it’s more passionate than in her dreams and even better than in any previous reality, and she no longer knows where the truth ends and the fabrication begins, but then, does it even matter?

The love she feels for him has never been anything but genuine, and she's convinced that all the rest of it is merely perception and an endless sequence of here and now, and as for tomorrow—

Tomorrow will take care of itself.


	30. Chapter 30

Tom strolls through the beautiful orchard, as he does every day.

The leaves are changing their colour, indicating that autumn has definitely arrived.

It’s bizarre, he thinks, how his homestead seems so foreign at times, even though he has lived there for years.

They both have.

It’s almost as uncanny as the little oddity that whenever he feels peckish during his walks, instantly, the reddest, juiciest apple falls from the nearest tree and lands right in front of his feet, almost as if he summoned it.

However, he realizes full well that the very concept of that is totally ludicrous.

Those instances, frequent though they are, are nothing but lucky coincidences. There is no such thing as telekinesis outside science fiction novels, while magic is something only reserved for fairy tales, but still—

Sometimes he feels like there’s a part of himself he can’t reach, fragments of his mind that are blocked and to which he’s no longer granted access, and for all this, he has no rational explanation.

But Hermione does, or so it appears.

She reassures him that his confusion is merely the result, the aftermath of his accident. He suffered a severe concussion and such a serious shock to the system is never without consequences.

Even the specialist they consulted said as much, but he also assured them that no neurological damage had been done and he promised that all would be well again in the long run.

Tom was certain that ‘neurological damage’ wasn’t an insult, and although it was probably a common term, he did wonder at the time why he’d never heard it before.

Or perhaps he had, but he simply couldn’t remember.

So many things still remain completely unfamiliar, and when he puts them all together, the global picture sort of makes sense, but as soon as he takes a closer look, examines every single piece separately, the whole thing unravels right in front of him like a worn-out tapestry.

Has he really forgotten that much?

At least he’s fortunate to be married to someone rational, someone who doesn’t seem to worry and who always tries to help him find a scientific explanation for everything he's going through.

That is, everything he elects to share with her, which is certainly not the whole story because that would be too strange.

Besides, he hates the invasiveness of doctors and specialists and others who act like they know his mind better than he does, himself.

He dreads the prospect of losing even the slightest morsel of control, so he never mentions them—

Those flashes he sees in his mind’s eye, of a dark night in a dungeon room and a large serpent with enormous fangs, and a young girl who looks a lot like Hermione and this other girl, a redhead, who seems somewhere between dead and alive and he suspects her state is his doing, though he can’t think why he would ever—

And the smell of raw sewage that always accompanies the hallucination is quite vivid too.

It _is_ merely a hallucination, isn’t it?

He decides it must be, because that sort of thing doesn’t happen, not in the real world.

“Dinner’s ready, dear,” a soft voice behind him says.

He turns around to face his wife.

Hermione looks lovely in her blue dress, and the late afternoon sun gives her dark brown hair an auburn glow.

“We’re having pasta,” she adds with a smile. “Your favourite, Tom."

He nods, smiles back and follows her to the house.

But just for a moment, he stops dead in his tracks.

He thinks he has spotted something…

A flash or a glimmer of white-silver wings in the September sky, but in the blink of an eye it has disappeared again, and he supposes he must have imagined it.

Besides, there are no such things as Hippogriffs; not on this side of reality, and it’s the only side that counts, the only one he can acknowledge.

Everything else is down to illusion or imagination or nothing but the product of a muddled mind.

One day, he resolves to be thoroughly convinced of that, in the exact same way as she is.

  


\--- FIN ---


End file.
